Dive Deep into Creativity: Your Ultimate Tumblr Experience Awaits
Poemblr - Blog Posts
the love between the ocean and the moon if that's too vague? <3 i always love your writing and you are always so great. <3
The moon asked the sun, “What do you know of love?”
“It burns,” said the sun. “It brightens. It is something you make and then give away.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said the clouds. “This big ball of gas doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Yes, I do,” said the sun. “Who but me makes the roses grow?”
“We do,” said the clouds. “Love nourishes, like the rain. We turn the hills green and fill the creeks so they will sing in their creekbeds.”
“Why do you ask?” said the sun.
“I think I might be in love,” said the moon. “I am trying to understand.”
So the moon went and looked at the deserts. They were dry and hot and empty. “See?” said the clouds. But the deserts were still beautiful.
And so the moon went and looked at the creeks in their beds, and they were cool and wet and full. And they were beautiful too.
“What do you think?” the moon asked the sky. “I want to know if I am in love.”
“Ask the earth,” said the sky, and so the moon asked the earth.
“The clouds cover me,” said the earth. “They make me bloom. The sun warms me. Without them I would be cold and dry.”
“You would be ugly without them. That is love?”
“I would be cold and dry,” said the earth, “but not ugly. You are cold and dry, my little one, and you are beautiful.”
“Not like you,” said the moon. “Not like the ocean.”
“No one is like me. No one is like you,” said the earth.
“I feel loveliest when she holds my light,” said the moon.
“Who is it that you love, my child? What kind of love do you wish?”
“Are there different kinds?” the moon asked.
“The sun warms me and pulls me in. The clouds cover me, when they remember. The sky turns every color for me. How do you and yours love?”
“We dance,” said the moon, and they knew she meant the ocean. “I push and she pulls. I rise and set, she rises and ebbs. She pushes, I pull. We go around and around and I watch her tides and I do not think I will ever tire of calling her beautiful. Is that love?”
“It is only your own reflection you see on the ocean’s surface,” scoffed the clouds. “It is like when the sun sets, and calls us beautiful, but it is only his own colors he loves.”
“I love her even when I shine no light,” said the moon. “Maybe I love her most then.”
“You only love her because she follows where you lead,” said the sun.
“It is a dance,” said the moon.
“It is self-centered,” said the clouds. “Bossy. Mean.”
“She is the heart of my orbit,” said the moon. “I will live my life by her until she is gas and I am dust and the universe is cold and dead.”
And the sun and the clouds were quiet and went away, and the stars came out from where they had been listening.
“Is this love?” said the moon.
“You are not asking the right people,” said the stars.
“I have asked the sun, who burns,” said the moon. “I have asked the clouds, who cover. I have asked the sky, who stays forever. I have asked the earth, who made me.”
“But have you asked the ocean, who loves you?” said the stars.
“Oh,” said the moon.
And so the moon went down to the ocean and asked, “Is this love?”
And the ocean said, “Yes.”
The Voided Lovers
The voided lovers Must never be seen. They cannot dance in the light of day, And the moon will not grace them with her gleam.
They may only embrace on the darkest of nights, They may only whisper sweet nothings in a crowd. They may only stroll hand in hand through forgotten streets, Where not even the lamplights dare to look down.
They will never feel the warmth on their lover’s skin, Only the cold acidity the wind provides. Yet embrace they do— Through the dark and glacial nights.
They make cathedrals of alleyways, Temples of whispered breath. Where every glance is sacred, And every touch defies death.
They are sunless, Moonless, Rid of light— Yet their love is never tuneless.
Their love is their dance, Their love is their light, Their love is the warmth On the cold winter’s night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Old English Version:
The voided lovers, cursed by fate, Must dwell in shadows, lone and late. They dare not dance 'neath sunlit skies, Nor bask where moonlight softly lies.
Their trysts are veiled in sable gloom, Their voices hushed, as though a tomb Had sealed their vows in silence deep— Where not e'en gaslight dares to creep.
The world, austere and cruelly drawn, Would scorn the touch their hands have known. So chill the wind, so sharp the air— Yet still they linger, pale and bare.
They fashion cathedrals from alleyways, Altars of breath, in spectral haze. Each glance a hymn, each touch defied The death that stalks where love must hide.
They are sunless, Moonless, Forsaken by flame— Yet hearts unlit bear passion's name.
Their love is their lantern, Their solace, their plight, Their warmth in the shivering Grasp of the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is a poem I wrote while bored and thinking of some of my friends from my DR's and OC's
I've been really getting into rewriting my poetry into old English because I think it makes it more romantic and melancholic
Let me know your thoughts on it!
I'm 19 and I stand in my room. Have you accomplished anything if you spent the year running just to end up back in the room that saw all your tears? Isn't the point of running to slow down somewhere else? But then I hear my mom chuckling at a joke I sent her through the door and remember that she didn't do that. Then
I am 18 and I am standing in my room. Sometimes I have to remind myself of how i carried so much stress in my neck then. I sat perched on my bed like a stranger too polite to mention the unusual offered seat. I had slammed a door behind me confident the next one was already open. The dread when the knob doesn't turn. I escaped through a window just to end up on this carpet again.
I am 19. I carry less stress in my neck. I devide friends into neat piles; healing and burning. Like an acid drip working unstoppably through your jeans. It doesn't actually hurt yet but god chemistry was your best subject. I see the acid on her jeans but we're adults now. Adults don't grip each others' arms until the circulation cuts off to keep from the cliff. I can make you a tea.
I make tea. I've always made tea. Perhaps that's the beauty of 19. The only novel thing in this poem, the oldest of all things. It's called an adventure at 8, a hobby at 15, a habit at 19. Hello. Would you like a tea. I was making one anyway. Really, I'm quite good at pouring it now.
sometimes you are 19 standing in the kitchen wondering how you forgot to have breakfast and lunch today, how you will exit the teenage in 47 fridays, how you used to love watermelons 4 summers ago and now you can't even stand the sight of it, how there were floors that saw you wipe them clean off your own tears once, how you changed your favourite coffee recipe last summer because your bestfriend liked it and you guys haven't talked since then, how the new book you're reading was never really your type but you love it, how you hated your hair for 9 winters, how the windows of your new house are bigger, how you feel bad for hurting them, how maybe making mistakes is okay, how maybe you don't have to not eat that cupcake when you go out today, how the wind feels too right whenever you snuggle into your bed, how you were 17 and all the winter ache wanted you to open your kitchen drawers and look for warmth. how then you didn't know someday you'll be 19 standing in the kitchen wondering if you forgot to put sugar in your coffee again.
Over the moon to be able to share this essay on the seriously overlooked work of Meath poet Francis Ledwidge.
My poem "Mr Keats is ill" features in VOL. 1: END of Tower Magazine. Available for purchase and/or download now!
New poem in Tower Vol I: End out May 15th!
Achilles
I
To them I am the brute not the lover
The raging king’s hound, his gold spear – death’s kiss
Was this the way, was there no other?
II
History, prayèrs did try to cover –
Those violent delights, and that violent bliss
- To them I am the brute not the lover.
III
Yet, if time would but only uncover
Those extra curves of your smiles that they miss – I miss.
Was this the way – was there no other?
IV
If the Prince of Troy did not hover over
My mind and your ghost – in debt to the Styx –
To them I am the brute not the lover!
V
They forget romeo, the pre-mover;
Was it for this you died, was it for this?
Alas, I am the brute. Not your lover.
Was this the way? Was there no other?
"Achilles" by Sadbh Kellett. First published in The Attic XX, 2017.
Brigid of the Forge | Culture Night 2021
Brigid of the Forge | Draíocht
Brigid of Spring | Draíocht
BELATED happy National Poetry Month!
“I Know Crips Live Here” by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
“Prayer for Werewolves” by Stephanie Burt
“Tin Busket” by Jenny George
“Give Ear to My Words (Psalm 5)” by Ernesto Cardenal
“Penelope / Odysseus” by Alex Peery Clark @two-bees-poetry
“Achilles / Patroclus” by LJ Moore
“First They Came for the Jews” by Pastor Niemöller
“Two-Headed Calf” by Laura Gilpin
“she asked me if i believed in god and i told her that when i was four i almost drowned in a public pool and in my panic mistook a stranger for my father.” by @inkskinned
“all this living is catching up to me” by @hauntedomens
“The Hymn of Patroclus” by Penelope L. P. @penelopelpa
“The first lines of emails I’ve received while quarantining” by Jessica Salfia
“Song for Baby-O, Unborn” by Diane di Prima
“Question” by May Swenson
“Young People” by Richie Hofmann
“The Bronze Arms” by Richie Hofmann
“The Trans Agenda is to Keep My F*cking Friends Alive” by Sol Rios
“For a Student Who Used AI to Write a Paper” by Joseph Fasano
“The Boy Scout Pledge” by Michael Glatze
“How to Watch Your Brother Die” by Michael Lassell
“We Have Enough Dead Friends” by Lena Oleanderson @lena-oleanderson
Untitled (warning: gore, war)
Metallic petrichor grows into my lungs
As reverse-aged wine flows into a blood sea.
Trauma stains the Earth,
Unresolved cruelty bleeding
Into the forest floor.
The moss cannot process fast enough,
Becoming a crimson-dyed carpet,
Sponging out vermillion blood.
If you step carefully, the woods will still chatter and whisper about your presence. A maple may brush your hair with a long, skinny arm. Dry yarrow stalks will claw at your clothes; you may need a sewing kit.
Reblogging my art with folk songs I feel are fitting part 3
18 (warning: suicidal thoughts)
Blow out the candles, darling.
You might make it to 18.
After all the nights crying
Through gritted teeth.
After the day you thought
That if you killed yourself
Their lives would be more pleasing.
Congratulations, darling.
You’re almost 18.
Reblogging my art with folk songs I feel are fitting part 1
Untitled (warning: violence against marginalized & minority populations)
Sitting on the ground reading Emily Dickinson
Just me, God, and the ants
One on my ankle, one on my shoe
I’m sure I’m getting eat up
Oh well
There are worse things that bite
after “The Song of Achilles” by Madeline Miller (warning: violence)
Heliotropic soul who smells of spring.
Sunshine hair with gold-leafed summer irises,
Bright, shining from alabaster flesh.
Chiseled hands over carved wood,
Sinew-plucked strings.
They would never draw blood.
Winter is a minimalist,
Warmed by our roseate love,
Thawed anew.
Untitled (warning: violence against marginalized & minority populations)
Sitting on the ground reading Emily Dickinson
Just me, God, and the ants
One on my ankle, one on my shoe
I’m sure I’m getting eat up
Oh well
There are worse things that bite
Fix (warning: substances, abuse, enslavement, self harm, suicidal ideation)
Pile up my substances
I want control
Obey my captors
The same old, same old
Countless masters I serve
Superficial reality
Rinse and repeat
Lies I tell myself to fall asleep
Cut up my willpower
And sell it to a fallacy
I want my life back
Tell me it’s not too late
Don’t want to say goodbye
Sick of paying for mistakes
Hallway (warning: horror, death, blood, gore, violence)
The PA system boomed
“They’ve made it into the school.
Lock and barricade your current room.”
I was in the hallway.
A stampede of bodies arose,
Living turning to dead to decompose.
Frightened and running through pools,
Slipping on blood in the hallway.
Beings crammed behind doors,
Quasi train cars as hopeful shields from doom.
Fearful faces cowered from windows,
Hiding from monsters in the hallway.
The growls approached.
The claws made their presence known.
Limbs and organs covered the floor.
The monsters were hungry for more than those in the hallway.
Blood-Singed II (warning: addiction, body horror)
Burnt red wine
Slinking down to slender fingertips
As sweet blood
With bite.
Wholly tremoring
With a fragile gaze
And blurred existence.
Lovers
Velvet blood coursing through intertwining paths
Supported by ebony pillars of bone
Supporting us in dance.
Your tender flesh, your cradling warmth
Clasped around my waist
Like it was made for your hands to rest on.
My limbs hung over your shoulders, around your neck
Like a garland made to grace your collar,
Pull you closer,
Hold us together, lovers.
It Is (warning: depression, self sabotage, trauma)
Behind as dirt, numb as snow,
Handcuffed rage by my own red-handed self.
The monster’s back, isn’t it?
Monochrome duality of emotions
Like drama masks that fit briefly,
Then slip off.
Little horrors behind the eyes of a jolted girl.
It’s chronic, isn’t it?
Night Choir
Night choir,
Songstresses of the dark,
Serenade with your warm melodies.
Soothing screech,
Piercing hum,
Smooth vibrato,
Harmonize with the lights—
Twinkle, fade.
Untitled (warning: death, trauma response)
Dead horse, what have you done?
Traumatized into complacency,
Sat down,
Allowed to continue the charade.
Bloated carcass,
Needing to decompose
To nurture something—someone—anew.
I’m painting my nails to Queen and thinking about queer history (warning: hate crimes, violence, homophobia, transphobia)
I’m painting my nails to Queen
And thinking about queer history,
Bloodied,
Beautiful,
Weather-worn.
The artists that allow
My type in men to sparkle,
Gorgeous,
Pretty,
Free.
Don’t talk,
Save me.
Fights over love renewing
With people’s being
Free perceived
Threatening.
I want to break free.
Lover
Melt your fingertips into my skin,
Honey dripping between limbs.
Ebony hands gripping porcelain hips,
Obsidian and howlite,
Evening and starlight,
Melt me with your tender kiss.
Oh, lover,
Sweet embrace among silken cloth,
Hovering like a moth
To your flame, under our covers.
I wonder how much saltwater I can drink up
FINE, TAKE IT ALL!