#metapoetry Tumblr posts

  • Men wax poetics about the weeks preceding love -

    Anticipation,

    Trepidation,

    Lust.

    Expectation and uncertainty are well and good,

    In books of fiction.

    There’s nothing more satisfying than

    Being seen,

    Being known.

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  • https://youtu.be/hP4r3uY4Vos

    I made this about bullying and pushing people to the extreme. Stop bullying. Its not cool come bully me and meet your match. Storytime.

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  • image

    I no longer have strength to face my life, face my decisions and no longer able to face my true own self. How could you ever do this to me? Am I that vulnerable or am I a dumping machine? You find my already broken pieces and break it into pieces further. I’m an artist, I say, nevertheless I am able to turn only pain into an art. The pain of loving you, the pain of not loving you, the pain of thinking of you, the pain of not thinking of you, the pain of seeing you, the pain of not seeing you. I indeed take all the blame, as an artist for making my art, a flaw. I apologise for turning my pain into poetry. I should kill either the artist in me or my true transparent self! It’s hard when both becomes one single entity. The question isn’t, “to write or not to write”, it’s rather,“to kill or not to kill”. Caring for people won’t take you anywhere and I learnt it in a very hard way. Just one person and one second is enough to get your heart ripped out. I am wrong, I am guilty, I am sad, I am suicidal, and for what? I don’t know. For why? I don’t know. I just want to be invisible for a day and want to know what you really feel about me. Is it too much to ask?… Even my fingers lost strength to carry this on! Until next pain, bottle up! See ya…©reshu_jana_

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  • as poets, we write as though we’re always waiting for the moment the story will stop falling onto the page from our lips and start falling from our eyes.

    we dissect our heart on open parchment, always afraid that a single tear might destroy the facade we’ve painstakingly constructed out of paper.

    inevitably, it falls… and we let our souls sing while the ink bleeds - and when it dries, we start again.

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  •  by Pablo Neruda

    And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
    in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
    it came from, from winter or a river.
    I don’t know how or when,
    no they were not voices, they were not
    words, nor silence,
    but from a street I was summoned,
    from the branches of night,
    abruptly from the others,
    among violent fires
    or returning alone,
    there I was without a face
    and it touched me.

    I did not know what to say, my mouth
    had no way
    with names,
    my eyes were blind,
    and something started in my soul,
    fever or forgotten wings,
    and I made my own way,
    deciphering
    that fire,
    and I wrote the first faint line,
    faint, without substance, pure
    nonsense,
    pure wisdom
    of someone who knows nothing,
    and suddenly I saw
    the heavens
    unfastened
    and open,
    planets,
    palpitating plantations,
    shadow perforated,
    riddled
    with arrows, fire and flowers,
    the winding night, the universe.

    And I, infinitesimal being,
    drunk with the great starry
    void,
    likeness, image of
    mystery,
    felt myself a pure part
    of the abyss,
    I wheeled with the stars,
    my heart broke loose on the wind.

    #a poem for you #pablo neruda#metapoetry #poems about poems #spanish poems#poesia
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  • The Price of Poetry

    crossfires. melting faces and the piling corpses in gwangju. remember the price of revolution. gas chambers and a hundred thousand jews. remember the price of difference. grenades under your bed and bullets between your teeth. remember Syria, the price of birth. remember this poem, the price of poetry.

    osman from the tenth street teaches poetry

    he has one class a year and he asks them to go love,

    he doesn’t tell them who , he doesn’t tell them how,

    they come back with Tagore on their tongues and ink between their fingers.

    osman lives in a rundown home with three parakeets uncaged

    osman loved abdullah, abdullah left poetry under his bed.

    heartbreak: the price of poetry, act I.

    meena sits on a temple threshold and sings about god

    all her poems got buried in her throat and she vomits one every monday

    she doesn’t have a home to go back to and says god saves her everyday

    she shushes me when i remind her of the temple candle and her burning saree and blistered leg

    meena sits on the threshold and sings her poems about some unblemished blue godly feet

    devotion: the price of poetry, act II.

    madhu makes good tea and swallows lemons with her rice

    she says that salt and sea and tears are daughters of the same mother

    madhu speaks poetry at dawn

    madhu speaks of a boy she loved and lost and buried with her own hands

    the boy was a lover, madhu says that love leaves you with a cactus for shade, her body doesn’t fit in the thorns

    loss: the price of poetry, act III.

    marie comprehends agha shahid ali best and she says she was born in 1947

    she says that she divided her home with a barbed wire and put parts of her on either side

    and she never brought in a lover because he would want both and her skin is soft and she would cut her chest and kill both if she wanted both

    she says she understands a burning house

    homelessness: price of poetry, act IV.

    i sit beside a lotus lake and feel the thickness of the stalk and try putting the juice in my eyes

    they burn but i don’t cry

    i write a goddamn poetry instead

    now this heart holds a volcano and it’s still not burning

    numbness: price of poetry, act V.

    read this play, little boy, don’t enact it. never enact it.

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  • She loves in five dimensions,
    it’s not a regular affair.
    Described in wayward poetry
    her words toll true and through.

    Her verse a florid tapestry
    it’s not a regular affair.
    A troubadour army at beck and call
    marching scansion to your heart.

    With screeching rainbows from her pen
    it’s not a regular affair.
    And when they’re lovestruck aimed for you
    perish thoughts of dullard lore.

    Despite her convictions, @barbaranestor’s love poetry is not shameful nor the domain of embarrassment. It is this and so much more.

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  • animated
    we are constant moments
    a poem without end
           digital artwork by A.L. Crego

    see more:  https://alcrego.tumblr.com/

    #animation #we are constant moments #poem #A.L. Crego #metapoetry
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  • #we read this in class and I loved this line #poem#poetry#metapoetry#edwin morgan #opening the cage
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  • poetry is feeling this conflicting urge to write. to get out every fiber of my being. of my thoughts. onto paper. adequately showing you. the reader. my guts. my tears. those that have dried and those that will form. my fears. me. showing you why ripped pieces of paper are magical. why blank pages speak volumes. poetry is me sitting down to write the poem that can give you all of these things. and aimlessly starring at a blank sheet of paper for two hrs looking for the words to write. and realizing that is poetry in and of itself. those two hrs. that starring. that blank sheet of paper. let that be my representation. accept that as my guts. those are my thoughts and tears and fears. the poem is what you are technically reading at the moment. the poetry started two hrs ago. it is what stares back at me in those conflicting hours. it is the every fiber of my being. it is what was and what could have been and what will never be.

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  • I’ve never really considered myself
    A poet.

    I’ve always been someone who
    Writes poetry
    But I’ve never felt comfortable
    Claiming that title.

    I can sit by a bonfire
    Friends by my side,
    Fireflies buzzing above,
    A warmth that is too warm
    And a chill that is too cold.

    And I can compose lines
    Four or five for each of them:

    One:
    You’ve always been by my side
    I don’t remember how we met,
    And I don’t remember why I can’t
    Tell you the things I won’t say.

    Two:
    You try so hard to make me feel
    Good and welcome and loved
    But sometimes it’s overbearing
    And I need a night off.

    Three–
    And here is where I get poetic,
    Not become a poet,
    But get poetic:
    Your hair holds more multitudes
    Than the skies above us,
    And I would love to explore them
    So long as you allow it.

    Four:
    Your hands are magical,
    And though I’ve never felt them
    I will imagine their caress
    And I will believe it yours.

    Five:
    You are a smile on a day
    When everyone can only frown.
    You are a pull that I don’t notice
    But for when it stops
    And the frown settles back in.

    I can write poems
    I can write poetry,
    But I still don’t believe
    That I could be called
    A poet.

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  • He makes sesame oil and sees

    as dark as I am he can distinguish- these

    arms and legs aren’t soil. Indeed-

    I am no place to plant a see


    If I were he’d grow like weeds

    and choke me out- and all this leads

    to a flood that soaks the land, and cedes

    all that’s left are whispering reeds


    This body houses one flower, at best

    and after will return back to its rest

    with a sure grip and a calm state

    I still can enjoy the taste


    In his heart he knows what I need

    with his palms he presses the seeds,

    and on my tongue as sweet as they be-

    they’ve lost the ability to become a tree


    -Nesting Serpents

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  • the words crumble
    and fall into pieces
    in between the lines
    crushed under the
    weight of gravity
    they writhe and bleed
    chained in somnolence
    imploding aimlessly
    and drowning in thin air

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  • Change!

    Change the function, the shape of self, the shape of spacetime We are splimes, long, everlasting, multifacted and brachiated Why do we then feel so fragmented? Integrate! Remember all you are and dance awake, see more, zoom out

    Zoom out

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  • I
    Three times eight is twenty-four. That’s how long
    this triple threat triolet’s gonna be.
    T'be sure, this many times I’ll hit the gong:
    three times eight is twenty-four. That’s how long
    the day is. So, go take your coffee strong.
    You’ll surely need it to keep up with me.
    Three times eight is twenty-four. That’s how long
    this triple threat triolet’s gonna be.

    II

    Friend, this is gonna be your lucky day,
    ‘cause this here’s a double three-leaf clover
    combo! So, keep on reading if you dare,
    friend, this is gonna be your lucky day.
    Didja know that’s what it means? Put a dent
    in that dictionary'f you can bother,
    friend, this is gonna be your lucky day.
    'Cause this here’s a double three-leaf clover.

    III

    So, here we go, it’s happenin’ right now.
    It’s a big ol’ hat trick through the five-hole.
    Poem about poems, that’s nothin’ new.
    So, here we go, it’s happenin’, right? Now,
    I’m blowin’ your mind, thought I’d letcha know,
    since you’re in the throes of orgasm, woah!
    So, here we go, it’s happening right now.
    It’s a big ol’ hat trick through the five-hole.

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  • So I decided to make a poetic story for Zahard, because he is never given any background or even how he entered the tower… More to come later with specific events. This is more of an introduction.

    Keep reading

    #Zahard #Tower of God #The Tower#Metapoetry#Introduction #pls notice my poems #chamaaco
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  • riding the calm wave of conscious manifestation like a tropical sunset tinting orange, pink & turquoise on a surreal ocean beach

    #manifestation #fruit of consciousness #magic pattern spell #c3s5l8#metapoetry #incantatory neural programming #techno witchcraft#spell craft
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  • La poesía, ¿no? Esa cosa maravillosa que tiñe toda la vida sin que nadie se entere. Es curioso pensar como vós no te enterás. ¡Pero igual que vós medio universo! Es decir, es verse escribiendo y estás creando pequeños mundos, ¿no? Pero es muy gracioso descubrir que esos pequeños mundos tienen tanto de real como la vida misma y a la vez la nada, ¿entendés?

    No sé si estoy siendo pelotudo pero al menos es mi enfoque. Yo escribo el alma, la vida. Escribo la biografía y la sangre en el papel. Pero es una biografía falsa, ¿entendés? Es mi vida, tu vida y la de todo hijo de madre que haya en cualquier barrio de Buenos Aires. Eso es lo maravilloso de la poesía.

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