Tom Snarsky

Obsessed with this one by @esichr.bsky.social from HAD (I forget if I’ve shared it before, but it’s so good it’s definitely worth sharing twice!)

Under September and the loud moving Of mountain writing and words in ruin A red nerve runs in a globe of dew Related for ever to this river Past the imperfect world and iron Of bright estates and a quelled shire. At her faintly history of webbed perishing I, under dusk and caw-witted smouldering Wear the western doors and angel on my tongue.

W. S. Graham

Photo of a page with the following Poem: TO AN AGED BEAR Hold hard this infirmity. It defines you. You are old. Now fix yourself in summer, In thickets of ripe berries, And venture toward the ridge Where you were born. Await there The setting sun. Be alive To that old conflagration One more time. Mortality Is your shadow and your shade. Translate yourself to spirit; Be present on your journey. Keep to the trees and waters. Be the singing of the soil. N Scott Momaday

N. Scott Momaday
#smallpoemsunday

A little Emily Dickinson for #SmallPoemSunday, one that’s been playing in my head through the bizarre news cycles of this week.

Shaded Road My life seems short and uninteresting but I like it. Oh, this is something only I see, my mind’s short hop back to where I had been, a young, smiling, rounded face, lonely and afraid. Really though, where am I? A spool of thread, the garden in the alley, evening, dim as it courses through my ears, blood from stars.

Arda Collins #smallpoemsunday

ESCAPE When foxes eat the last gold grape, And the last white antelope is killed, I shall stop fighting and escape Into a little house I'll build. But first I'll shrink to fairy size, With a whisper no one understands, Making blind moons of all your eyes, And muddy roads of all your hands. And you may grope for me in vain In hollows under the mangrove root, Or where, in apple-scented rain, The silver waspnests hang like fruit.

Elinor Wylie, making "muddy roads of all your hands"

for #smallpoemsunday!

“I may, I might, I must” by Marianne Moore

SOLMAZ SHARIF

This poem appears in her exceptional debut LOOK (2016) from @graywolfpress.bsky.social

#smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social

#smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social

ode to the flute A man sings by opening his mouth a man sings by opening his lungs by turning himself into air a flute can be made of a man nothing is explained a flute lays on its side and prays a wind might enter it and make of it at least a small final song

Ross Gay

catalog of unabashed gratitude

#smallpoemsunday
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social

Invite From mystical blood and life we imbibe. Long live libation of the sap which spouts a secret, invisible.

happy #smallpoemsunday

this is invite by melita matsinhe, translated by beth hickling-moore from mozambican portuguese :0 i think it's so beautiful and vital and mysterious and a real celebration of life on earth!

@tomsnarsky.bsky.social

good morning to unsubstantial sorrows

"I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone."

#poetry #smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social

DAILY RIFFS in the limited realm of the candle there are few choices, and who makes them? burn, melt, drip, or don't. I woke just as it started to rain so listened to that for a little while. exactitude sits on the day like a thick heavy hat, one that's a size too large and keeps falling down to cover the eyes. oh season! how long are you going to be? the game board is getting dusty but does anyone care? no. let's go outside. it's raining or isn't. animals are waking up. a bird has something to say.

For #SmallPoemSunday, here's "Daily Riffs", collected in *Becoming Altar*, available from asterismbooks.com

@tomsnarsky.bsky.social

White Rabbit Once, we could eat anything we wanted. We gorged on peaches and red bean cakes. We sucked on White Rabbit candy. The moon was empty and my heart was you. Now, there are only rice paper ghosts on my tongue, while Li Bai looks up and is blinded by what he sees.

One of mine from my tiny chapbook, “The Moon, My Heart” www.tinywrenlit.com/product-page...

#smallpoemsunday
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social

bsky.app/profile/raym...

Categories #smallpoemsunday

prose Sonnet The shirt in the poem was real, the house was not, and the last line was stolen from a philosopher who was in love with a 13-year-old boy. The attic window from which the reader views all of this alleged failing in love was pentagonal, red and yellow stained glass. Over the years, many neighborhood kids have tried to knock out the window with rocks and baseballs, but it can only be smashed from the inside out.

Mark Yakich from The Making Of Collateral Beauty

#smallpoemsunday
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social

Old elevators are trying so hard

I will participate in small poem Sunday with this mysterious two line koan I found among my notes

#smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social

A poem I wrote thirty years ago, one that I still like.

Seamus Heaney - Scaffolding

#smallpoemsunday

This gorgeous erotic poem by Octavio Paz for #smallpoemsunday

Touch

My hands
Open the curtains of your being
Clothe you in a further nudity

With no war left to prove it the sun eliminates itself from the throne.

Danniel Schoonebeek

@ugapress.bsky.social

Bread I was doing my best, then the day ganged up on me

happy #smallpoemsunday! 💜

feel free to participate by posting small poems you wrote, +/or small poems you love by somebody else :)

here’s one by Jesse Murray~

I’m roaming the meadow longing to be a poet whose song would move stones and organise city walls make trees walk to carpenters that build homes for people An unsubstantial sorrow is a heavy burden but still, still I want to see everything in unfamiliar marine light

Pentti Saarikoski, tr. Herbert Lomas

When it was all over, a sheep emerged from inside the house. A cheer went up, for it was recognized that these are lousy times to be living in, yet we do live in them: We are the case. And seven times seven ages later it would still be the truth in appearances, festive, eternal, misconstrued. Does anyone still want to play?

We are the case.

John Ashbery

THE ORIOLE 3 September 1939 The oriole entered the capital of sunrise. The blade of his song silenced the sad bed. Everything reached forever its end.

René Char, tr. Dawn-Michelle Baude

@tomsnarsky.bsky.social - Remembering now and always Bernadette Mayer - allenginsberg.org/2022/11/bern...