"The truth of irrevocable realities — do not belong to them: cannot be named by them: cannot be contained by them — truth is the most garish of foundlings, it is the eternal spirit companion of weeping angels..." A searing piece for @thearsonista.bsky.social by the extraordinary Jenni Fagan.

Pleased to announce the release of Fallen Leaves, my new poetry collection (Ballerini Book Press). Preorders available. Thanks for the kind words, Suzanne Frischkorn & James Owens. Excited that future works will have a home at BBP. @suzfrischkorn.bsky.social ballerinibookpress.ch/fallen-leave...

Proof copy is here, and she’s lovely, so let this be a little reminder that MORE FLOWERS is out with @triohousepress.org in less than 3 months! You can pre-order at the link in the replies or wherever books are sold! Here’s to more poetry and more flowers! 🌺🌸🌼

Morning read 👀 (first time reading it)

Adding some color to gloomy November

Beautiful diptychs by Jaume Llorens @jllorens.com www.lensculture.com/articles/jau...

For a Fall that starts to look Winter. This gorgeous reflection on time passing by Claire Malroux Octet Before Winter I want to wrench myself out of time's ballast, Switch rails

Can the beautiful be sad? Is beauty inseparable from the ephemeral and hence from mourning? Or else is the beautiful object the one that tirelessly returns following destructions and wars in order to bear witness that there is survival after death, that immortality is possible? —Julia Kristeva

M. Cynthia Cheung ♥️ from COMMON DISASTER (Acre Books) I absolutely love this poem! @acrebooks.bsky.social

And yet even that is possible: to have the starred skies closely wrapped around one's heart. Rilke, in a letter to Ilse Erdmann, October 1915

She was watching

November, and I'm leafing through Mary Frances's @maryfrancesness.bsky.social LANDFALL again... www.metambesen.org/wp-content/u...

Stories (and histories) on the surface of Virginia Woolf's writing desk, photographed by Annie Leibovitz, 2010

“It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sundowns sterner...November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.” -Emily Dickinson, letter to Elizabeth Holland (Nov 1865) #everynightapoem #november

“People really understand very little of one another…My Cid looks very hard and straight into my face as if in search of something..like someone who has tumbled off a star. But he is not the one who feel alien—…I think. He lives in a small country of hope, which is his heart.” Anne Carson

Fall

"In Syros, you struggled to separate your fantasy of Greece from the Greece around you. Pink dawns, laundry on balconies, and exhaust fumes wrestled with Styx, Lethe, coins on cold tongues." "strangeness is the true hallmark of beauty, not symmetry," —a beautiful new piece by David Luntz

Joanna Klink ♥️

Speaking of Rilke, autumns, and paintings (and of Rilke's angels and our desperate moments under black suns), years ago I painted "Rilke's Autumn" and destroyed it shortly afterward.

An autumn day spent with paintings. It is no surprise that Rilke's words arrived with the night. "At no other time ...does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; …Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost," Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Cézanne

"Peter Schmidt uses the “strikethrough” as a kind of shadow-writing: his “Encyclopedia of Light” reveals little dark threads of undoing — marks of the second thought that endlessly cancels the first." A beautiful read with paintings by Joseph Mallord William Turner.

exhausted and iambic Richard Siken

I was looking for Bonnard's painting mentioned in Marguerite Duras's "Practicalities" ("Bonnard") and, of course, the path led me further, to Édouard Vuillard, whose yellows and greens I adore today.

Autumn light #icm #impressionism #landscapelovers #photography

Robert Schumann by Mary Oliver 🖤

How strange it is, to be standing leaning against the current of time. W.G. Sebald, Vertigo; tr. Michael Hulse

I have a new micro about a random fear in the latest issue of @asteralesjournal.bsky.social Check it out if you wanna but make sure you read all the other amazing writers in the issue. 💙 Link: www.asteralesjournal.com/1-4-musgrove...

My sister is visiting for the first time in three years. Of course, we went to the orchard to pick apples. She asked, "Does it feel like homeplace yet?" All night long, I dreamed about jars of grandmother's apple jam.

Today's poem (Daily Poem) from The Paris Review. ❤️

Yves Bonnefoy; tr. Beverly Bie Brahic

New poem in Cream City Review alongside the work of so many extraordinary talents! I’m super excited by this one, which is also forthcoming in my collection, MORE FLOWERS, out with Trio House Press in February 2026! 💙💜 @creamcityreview.bsky.social @triohousepress.org

“I said: ‘I love you.’ You said: ‘I love you too.’ That was the last of you with me on this earth. The branch shakes still. The hawks on the cross circles.” Spencer Reece on Louise Glück.

I am having an incredibly sad morning. But then, this post from Beth Kephart. The morning continues to be incredibly sad, but the way light lies across the round yellow leaves of the hedges, where little birds are stirring: I welcome that as well. thehushandthehowl.substack.com/p/in-which-a...

Louise Glück, I love you 🤍

For the inaugural issue of Draught Journal @draughtjournal.bsky.social: On Bookmarks and Other Ruins—a reflection on the bookmark as a fragile site of memory, desire, and incompletion, accompanied by images of my own bookmarks. draughtjournal.com/article/on-b...

This is lovely 💙

My son and I collect autumn leaves during our walks, with no other purpose than to adore them. With so much happening... this helps.

We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are. Some machine made us; machine of the world, the constricting family. Then back to the world, polished by soft whips. We dream; we don’t remember. Louise Glück #poetry #writer

Roses for Susan @susanlleary.bsky.social, I hope you are doing well, Susan—this is probably the last bloom of the year, and therefore the most precious.

October Favorite parts from Louise Glück's poem October.

A painting that reminded me of this poem by Annie Nazzaro in @stonecirclereview.bsky.social, "After The Poet's Garden by Vincent van Gogh, 1888"

Autumn: back to mists and watercolors

the sadness of ... the stroke of midnight, ... words with too many meanings, ... insomnia, ... and icebergs seen from a canoe.

The bluest