In times of war and injustice, poets write, they translate, they make art, they connect with others, & they keep our collective hope alive that a better world can still be salvaged from the wreckage made by those who are against peace. We must create hope. NO WAR! 🧿🫶✍️

This is what CNN is publishing even before the Ellisons come in

death to america, of course

Good morning to the Coltraneans open.spotify.com/track/2gG3iv...

The Iliad is an etiological myth which, beyond its undeniable Homeric artistry and metric grandeur, also serves to explain and naturalize the origin of a civilization, a people, etc. And in that sense I see the Iliad as being quite political. Not so much the Odyssey. The Odyssey is poetry.

Waiting for Godot, which is to say, waiting for love

Is it smooth operator or smooth operetta Both make sense and I endorse both

Current levels of romantics at chez poemakontsa open.spotify.com/track/5WDLRQ...

Like Adrienne Rich said, “Nothing need be lost, no beauty sacrificed. The heart does not turn to a stone.”

A Jim Harrison for those finding, trying, doubting new love New Love Jim Harrison With all this death, behind our backs, the moon has become the moon again

Waiting for Godot, which is to say, waiting for love

The Iliad is an etiological myth which, beyond its undeniable Homeric artistry and metric grandeur, also serves to explain and naturalize the origin of a civilization, a people, etc. And in that sense I see the Iliad as being quite political. Not so much the Odyssey. The Odyssey is poetry.

Yes oceans tell their own kind or truth. But then again so does war, and power and greed and masculine vanity. I agree with Simone Weil about the Iliad being one of the few books to tell the absolute truth about those things. That said, the nautical theme makes me perfer the Odyssey!

Drawing Her Bath by Vincent Giarrono

It is so hard to transition from prose to poetry. So few novelists write good poetry. The opposite of course being quite different. Poets often write great novels.

Surprised I am liking and identifying with the poems of old Kingsley Amis

That poem by Michael Hamburger in which he compares the bird watcher with the young man, observing, noting down, schedules, departures, train numbers, as he waits for his fiancee at the train station.

'Concerning Waiting for Godot?' 'It means what it says.'

Reasons why Michael Hamburger is also a remarkable poet aside being the uncontested translator of Celan Spring song in winter Too long, too long I gathered icicles in Spring To thread them for a melting song;

Beautiful stunning Robert Kelly. On why the Odyssey is better than the Iliad. Which I agree.

Best essay ever??

I never thought Philip Larkin could be this pessimistic. For the nihilists and melancholics. Going There is an evening coming in Across the fields, one never seen before That lights no lamps.

wholly beautiful Alice Notley

Say good morning to my son

A poem by Estonian Jaan Kaplinski Silence is always here and everywhere sometimes we hear it more clearly

Now in the Dark Mari Vallisoo Tr. Jayde Will Now in the dark It's difficult for a poet - words mixed together one after another

I never thought Philip Larkin could be this pessimistic. For the nihilists and melancholics. Going There is an evening coming in Across the fields, one never seen before That lights no lamps.

That cover is a thing of beauty!

Another by Mark Strand from The New Yorker, this one for the completist. An early version of "The Coming of Light" (one of his most celebrated poems), "Late" was never collected, and hence, has been relegated to the dustbin of literary history. Enjoy!

Friday I’m on fire

Not an enthusiast of Philip Larkin, but these notes on the impulse to flee home, our life, resonated with me this morning Poetry of Departures We all hate home And having to be there: I detest my room, The good books, the good bed

Me and who

Good morning with Penguin classics poets

Now in the Dark Mari Vallisoo Tr. Jayde Will Now in the dark It's difficult for a poet - words mixed together one after another

A poem by Estonian Jaan Kaplinski Silence is always here and everywhere sometimes we hear it more clearly

Imagine being like this. Maybe we actually were all once like this. Be more like this guy!

La Valse des Oiseaux 🎨 Mohssin Amghar

Say good morning to my son

Say "good boy" to my child

Fuck. Brutal poem by Lithuanian Alfonsas Nyka-Niliūnas. Brutal brutal brutal Midday Stains of dusty lips, And the equations of your joy, written With the cold chalk of memory

More Lithuanian melancholy for your Wednesday Untitled Alfonsas Nyka-Niliūnas Today I would like to return from the hours of emptiness

Good morning with more melancholy Lithuanian poetry The treasure hunter's evening Kazys Bradunas There was nothing beneath the rock: Not silver, not miraculous water - Only earth Black as the night...

Daniel Simko giving me some voice in a night I probably won't speak much beyond this fear... beyond this apprehension life might just be this. And nothing more. The world within a lost glove Dreaming of home is a cruel joke. In the dim house, an impression of solitude, or of a garden abandoned

Summoning Spring Spring By Lithuanian poet Henrykas Nagys The ice has gone. Behind the windscreen you can now grasp a handful of wind like a small helpless bird

Poets have swag! (Also filed under "holy smokes!") Hungarian poet János Pilinszky

How deep we met, how dark, How wet! before the world began. ~Jean Valentine

Demons and marvels, winds and tides, far away already the sea has gone out, but in your half-open eyes two little waves remain. Demons and marvels, winds and tides, two little waves to drown myself in. — Jacques Prévert

Le Ruisseau (1926) by Marc Chagall