leti

ran into this while arranging my poems into a manuscript. featured in Issue 58.4 of Denver Quarterly 💖

“No sibling, no mother. Her / paws were dry magic beads. I touched them.”

bewitched by this poem. Feral, @jessicacuello.bsky.social

image of a page from an online book of poetry. white background, black text. all lowercase letters. title is all uppercase & bold. text is left-justified & reads as follows: INVERSE THEORY I am at the fault line. No fault of mine can hide. Trembling, I am not ready, but there is no cult of my body; no temple entrance. What gongs inside this mountain? It beats itself unsacred inside a sealed cave. And what of the wingbeat in you chorusing in me? What is it about journeying together seeming good on paper but not in real life? Is it that life lifts the proportionality sign off love's equation only to burden lovers with pestering constraints? Or can there be equality of power between us in the subtle dance that divides love and loathing?

image of a page from an online poetry collection. it follows the previous image. white background with black text. word contributor names in uppercase, bold with their lines underneath their names. first sentence/heading is underlined. text is left-justified & reads as follows: Original lines contributed in order: K WEBER I am at the fault line. No fault of mine ***also chose title after poem completed SIERRA RITTUE can hide. trembling—i am not ready. But WILL DAVIS There is no cult of my body No temple entrance ANKH SPICE What gongs inside this mountain-it beats itself unsacred inside a sealed cave. LETITIA JIJU And what of the wingbeat in you chorusing in me - ROANNA FERNANDES What is it about journeying together seeming good on paper but not in real life? ANKIT RAJ OJHA Is it that life lifts the proportionality sign off love's equation only to burden lovers with pestering constraints? GLENN BARKER Or can there be equality of power between us in the subtle dance that divides love and loathing

we created exquisite corpse poems for ASOOPP2 (2022)! here’s one with lines by me, @unsavorywench.bsky.social, Will Davis, @seagoatscreams.bsky.social, @letitia.bsky.social, @roanna.bsky.social, Ankit Raj Ojha & @glenn-a-barker.bsky.social !

free PDF: tinyurl.com/2023asoopp2

#donatedwordspoetry

110+ Languages of [the late] Refaat If anyone refresh this note, the translation maybe added another languages

Palestinian poet Refaat Alareer's 'If I must die' is an unstoppable witness-spark: heart-fire translated into 100+ languages.

simultaneously we are the most brutal/most tender beings & gods help us all to hold the latter high

prada.substack.com/p/40-languag...

It's an exciting season for P&L! We are considering apps for readers, a social media manager, & we open for subs on Jan 1. So we thought it would be a great time to (re)introduce y'all to the generous people who make P&L happen!

Meet @letitia.bsky.social our amazing poetry reader!

Tenderness does not choose its own uses.

—Jane Hirshfield

not often has it happened to me nor am i sure what it means, but i woke up with the opening line of my own poem stuck in my head.

if it was up to me, i’d snag it in a heartbeat. again.

Atlanta Review Atlanta Review publishes all kinds of great poetry; we do not subscribe to any particular "school."  We read and admire lyric, narrative, experimental, form, free verse, prose poems, and any other ki...

We have a one-week free window for BIPOC, LGBTQ+, and Disabled Writers happening now. Send us your work! atlantareview.submittable.com

My scalp is alive,
love touched it.

—Jean Valentine

mrs dalloway said she

here from Twitter! hi 💓

THE SKIES DON’T UNDERSTAND BY HUA XI The sky doesn’t have a bed to go home to, so what does it know about emptiness? That every day, a train leaves me and goes and goes. Staying late again, I worry that when I die I won’t be anything but myself. And my life is too heavy to take the air’s startling directions. This morning, the industrial plants were in full bloom as the winds headed into their offices of sand while the fresh earth began printing another faraway copy of its sticky paddle palms, unopened flowers, and pages of mistranscriptions. I look at the mountains, but they do not look back. The hills touch each other gently as if they had permission and I want to lay myself down wherever I am missing. The distance turns to me to ask how far. I ask the stars why they always come and stand quietly in the back of the room without ever saying sorry.

if anybody here wants to read a new poem I have published, in the adroit journal. there are stars in it..

thinking about this @taraskurtu.bsky.social poem