1. I heard the author read this tonight and clapped all the way through it. Saving this for my soon-to-be Middle Schooler. <3

    tea-splattered-words:

    Girl
    The next time
    that the space above your eyelids
    is crowded with numbers

    numbers
    stuck to the inside of your jeans
    numbers
    blinking from the edge of the scale
    remember

    that you
    are a four letter word
    not something to be taken lightly
    not something to be whispered
    not something to be measured

    but girl,
    I know that they have tried to measure you
    that he tired to measure you 
    his hands terrified
    searching for the parts of you
    that fit into the mold
    that he created in the back of his mind
    a long time ago

    girl
    that has never been your endpoint
    it has never been your job
    to fold yourself until you fit there
    your hands 
    have far too many things to create
    you have far too much space to fill up

    and when the words
    "I’m sorry"
    start to slip out from under your tongue
    wipe them away
    like his saliva
    there will be times for those
    and this is not one of them

    and besides,
    you have always had a home
    inside the four walls 
    of your own skin

    but girl,
    I know that they told you 
    to make those walls out of tissue paper
    to make them thin enough
    so that people can see through

    so that maybe
    someone will see your broken pieces
    duct tape them back together
    tell you that you are worth saving

    but girl,
    I can promise you
    that you have never needed saving
    there is no instruction manual
    you are assembled
    exactly how you’re supposed to be 

    girl,
    your tears have never been leaky drainage pipes
    they have always been waterfalls
    midnight rain
    forces of art

    and I’m not saying
    that there’s anything beautiful
    about your sadness
    just that there’s nothing sad
    about your beauty

    when you are so unshaken
    so immeasurable
    when you know
    that giving is not the same thing as loving
    that it is not enough
    to pull in your knees
    so that someone else can stretch their legs

    girl,
    you must first be full
    if you are to fill
    it you are to fill this room
    with the sound of your voice
    you are a four letter word
    not something to be whispered 

    girl
    Genius
    Irreplaceable 
    Really fucking cool
    Loved

    not something to be taken lightly

     
  2. 23:56 7th Apr 2013

    Notes: 238965

    Reblogged from locksandglasses

    Tags: poetry

    1.
    I say, ‘I am fat.’
    He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
    I wonder why I cannot be both.
    He kisses me
    hard.

    2.
    My college theater professor once told me
    that despite my talent,
    I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
    We do plays that involve singing animals
    and children with the ability to fly,
    but apparently no one
    has enough willing suspension of disbelief
    to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
    I daydream regularly
    about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.

    3.
    On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
    while he is still asleep,
    I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
    for a punchline,
    for other girls’ phone numbers.

    4.
    When we hold hands in public,
    I wonder if he notices the looks —
    like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
    if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.

    5.
    Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
    I will not take sex tips from you
    on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.

    6.
    He tells me he loves me with the lights on.

    7.
    I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
    feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
    He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
    Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.

    8.
    The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
    assumes we are just friends
    and flirts over the counter.
    I spend the next two weeks
    mentally replacing myself with her
    in all of our photographs.
    When I admit this to him
    we spend the evening taking new photos together.
    He will not let me delete a single one of them.

    9.
    The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
    Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
    Loving me is not a fetish.
    Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
    I am not a fucking novelty.

    10.
    I say, ‘I am fat.’
    He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
    and kisses me
    hard.

    — Rachel Wiley   (via iggysodapop)

    (Source: sweetdeltablues)

     
  3. 21:39 6th Apr 2013

    Notes: 614

    Reblogged from fashionistazapatista

    Tags: poetry

    if she is covered in continents,
    if her teeth are small colonies,
    if her stomach is an island
    if her thighs are borders?
    What man wants to lie down
    and watch the world burn
    in his bedroom?
    Your daughter’s face is a small riot,
    her hands are a civil war,
    refugee camp behind each ear.
    —  Warsan Shire (via two-browngirls)
     
  4. Cartographies of Silence

    1.

    A conversation begins
    with a lie. and each 

    speaker of the so-called common language feels
    the ice-floe split, the drift apart 

    as if powerless, as if up against
    a force of nature 

    A poem can being
    with a lie. And be torn up. 

    A conversation has other laws
    recharges itself with its own 

    false energy, Cannot be torn
    up. Infiltrates our blood. Repeats itself. 

    Inscribes with its unreturning stylus
    the isolation it denies. 


    2.

    The classical music station
    playing hour upon hour in the apartment 

    the picking up and picking up
    and again picking up the telephone 

    The syllables uttering
    the old script over and over 

    The loneliness of the liar
    living in the formal network of the lie 

    twisting the dials to drown the terror
    beneath the unsaid word 


    3.

    The technology of silence
    The rituals, etiquette 

    the blurring of terms
    silence not absence 

    of words or music or even
    raw sounds 

    Silence can be a plan
    rigorously executed 

    the blueprint of a life 

    It is a presence
    it has a history a form 

    Do not confuse it
    with any kind of absence 


    4.

    How calm, how inoffensive these words
    begin to seem to me 

    though begun in grief and anger
    Can I break through this film of the abstract 

    without wounding myself or you
    there is enough pain here 

    This is why the classical of the jazz music station plays?
    to give a ground of meaning to our pain? 


    5.

    The silence strips bare:
    In Dreyer’s Passion of Joan 

    Falconetti’s face, hair shorn, a great geography
    mutely surveyed by the camera 

    If there were a poetry where this could happen
    not as blank space or as words 

    stretched like skin over meaningsof a night through which two people
    have talked till dawn. 


    6.

    The scream
    of an illegitimate voice 

    It has ceased to hear itself, therefore
    it asks itself 

    How do I exist? 

    This was the silence I wanted to break in you
    I had questions but you would not answer 

    I had answers but you could not use them
    The is useless to you and perhaps to others 


    7.

    It was an old theme even for me:
    Language cannot do everything- 

    chalk it on the walls where the dead poets
    lie in their mausoleums 

    If at the will of the poet the poem
    could turn into a thing 

    a granite flank laid bare, a lifted head
    alight with dew 

    If it could simply look you in the face
    with naked eyeballs, not letting you turn 

    till you, and I who long to make this thing,
    were finally clarified together in its stare 


    8.

    No. Let me have this dust,
    these pale clouds dourly lingering, these words 

    moving with ferocious accuracy
    like the blind child’s fingers 

    or the newborn infant’s mouth
    violent with hunger 

    No one can give me, I have long ago
    taken this method 

    whether of bran pouring from the loose-woven sack
    or of the bunsen-flame turned low and blue 

    If from time to time I envy
    the pure annunciation to the eye 

    the visio beatifica
    if from time to time I long to turn 

    like the Eleusinian hierophant
    holding up a single ear of grain 

    for the return to the concrete and everlasting world
    what in fact I keep choosing 

    are these words, these whispers, conversations
    from which time after time the truth breaks moist and green. 

    Adrienne Rich

     
  5. How I’m moved.
    How you move me
    With your beauty’s potency.
    You give me life.
    Please don’t let me go.
    You crush the lily in my soul.
    — Kate Bush
     
  6. but how can you be a feminist, if you have never shown respect to your body or your mother’s name?
    — warsan shire (http://warsanshire.tumblr.com/)
     
  7. "you can’t make homes out of human beings
    someone should have already told you that
    and if he wants to leave
    then let him leave
    you are terrifying
    and strange and beautiful
    something not everyone knows how to love.”

    From for women who are ‘difficult’ to love” (poem 11) by warsan shire

     
  8. You may trod me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I rise. ~Maya Angelou

     
  9. Ode to the Book (II)

    Book,
    beautiful
    book,
    minuscule forest,
    leaf
    after leaf,
    your paper
    smells
    of the elements,
    you are
    matutinal and nocturnal,
    vegetal,
    oceanic,
    in your ancient pages
    bear hunters,
    bonfires
    near the Mississippi,
    canoes
    in the islands,
    later
    roads
    and roads,
    revelations,
    insurgent
    races,
    Rimbaud like a wounded
    fish bleeding
    thumping in the mud,
    and the beauty
    of fellowship,
    stone by stone
    the human castle rises,
    sorrows intertwined
    with strength,
    actions of solidarity,
    clandestine
    book
    from pocket
    to pocket,
    hidden
    lamp,
    red star.

    We
    the wandering
    poets
    explored
    the world,
    at every door
    life received us,
    we took part
    in the earthly struggle.
    What was our victory?
    A book,
    a book full
    of human touches,
    of shirts,
    a book
    without loneliness, with men
    and tools,
    a book
    is victory.
    It lives and falls
    like all fruit,
    it doesn’t just have light,
    it doesn’t just have
    shadow,
    it fades,
    it sheds its leaves,
    it gets lost
    in the streets,
    it tumbled to earth.
    Morning-fresh
    book of poetry,
    again
    hold
    snow and moss
    on your pages
    so that footsteps
    and eyes
    may keep carving
    trails:
    once more
    describe the world to us,
    the springs
    in the middle of the forest,
    the high woodlands,
    the polar
    planets,
    and man
    on the roads,
    on the new roads,
    advancing
    in the jungle,
    in the water,
    in the sky,
    in the naked solitude of the sea,
    man
    discovering
    the ultimate secrets,
    man
    returning
    with a book,
    the hunter back again
    with a book,
    the farmer
    plowing
    with a book.

    ~ Pablo Neruda

     
  10. Your children are not your children.
    They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
    They come through you but not from you,
    And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

    You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
    For they have their own thoughts.
    You may house their bodies but not their souls,
    For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
    You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
    For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

    - Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

     
  11. This photo of Patti Smith &#8212; poet, rock legend &#8212; in a Dior ballgown is perfection.
photo links to NYTimes article

    This photo of Patti Smith — poet, rock legend — in a Dior ballgown is perfection.

    photo links to NYTimes article