April 20, 2014
National Poetry Month Day 15: "Exercises in Breathing" by Kimberly Southwick



knowing the rules is not enough. when it snows,
it doesn’t always mean it. when it snows, sometimes
it snows for the museums and sometimes it snows
for the papers and sometimes it snows for only
her majesty, the sea.


following the rules is not enough. when he breathes—
remember this one…

April 20, 2014
"I think that I’m drawn often to shorter works, works that feel focused, and earnest in trying to communicate something. I feel pretty content where others might not, simply glimpsing just a fragment of somebody’s life. I feel okay not knowing the character’s whole story. Instead, I like the intimacy of peeking in on a particular moment when someone is standing at a window, or walking along water, or trying to puzzle out some piece of their past that maybe doesn’t make sense. I feel excited myself by reading work that does that, even if there’s a kind of challenge in that. And writing these pieces, sometimes it felt pretty personal. So as a writer, there’s motivation there. Trying to capture a person, or even the idea of a person, in an important or strange or charged moment of their thinking—or just being—was enough for me."

The Rumpus Interview with Ashley Farmer (via therumpus)

(via therumpus)

April 14, 2014
"My line is ‘I don’t have a career. I have a life.’ "

— Tilda Swinton

(Source: vulture.com)

7:36am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZGnwYy1D0ke3h
Filed under: Tilda Swinton 
April 14, 2014

A while ago, once again up against someone close to me dying, I worked out that, in a nutshell, when the chips are down, my basic battery is charged by the endlessly reliable generators of Nature and Friendship: Beyond any other thing, these two influences that never fail to buoy and nourish me.

This, of course, is very close to what Eve in Only Lovers knows and values: the company of fellow travelers, the slow burn, the long view—and the perpetual guiding change of nature. Both are ­bigger than us; they support and carry us. We can fly at the back of the formation they form and take our place as a part of ­patterns they make … We set out to make something about ­companionship and wonder in the face of bitterness and ­disillusionment—and we set out to hope that companionship and wonder might win. And, in addition, Eve expresses something very accurate about me, which is not the artist in me but the cheerleader of artists, the bird at the end of the phone, the dance partner, the ­appreciative reader of proofs, the bearer of the bucket, and the sponge in the ­corner, sometimes the jester with the balloon on a stick. This is, beyond anything I think, the part of my work that I treasure the most, my job, above all, as artist’s moll.


— Tilda Swinton

(Source: vulture.com)

April 13, 2014


"…I’m an ocean-going vessel
but you are a ceiling made of wood…”

Anne Sexton, from Grandfather, Your Wound

(via illeonedipietra)

April 13, 2014
"He loved her, of course, but better than that, he chose her, day after day. Choice: that was the thing."

Sherman Alexie, The Toughest Indian In The World

(via ecouri)

(Source: larmoyante, via paperboatheart)

April 13, 2014

(Source: n-nobodybreaksmyheart, via paperboatheart)

April 13, 2014

The same painting is hanging on all four walls
of my hotel room: Ship at sea.
Ship at sea.

Ship at sea.  Ship at sea.

An empty bed won’t say
I love you
until its jaw falls off. The rain believes
the earth exists

just to give it something
to fall against. What can I do

from my dingy little room but close
the blinds and turn up the TV?

Some days I come out wrinkled like a jacket
exhumed from a suitcase. Some days

I’m as constant as the last soggy corn flake
at the bottom of a bowl of milk,
that piece that keeps giving

the spoon the slip. I’m that ship that can’t
find shore, can’t be sunk.

Just days without you and I’ve got
that midnight streetlight tan,
that Big Chug Jug caffeine carelessness, that one loose
toll booth tooth, these highway hiccups.

The wooden benches in the train station
remind me of the pews in the clapboard church

where my cousins are still swaying
with the holy spirit. Oh, ship at sea, they sing, you are
my ark, my raft.

But where is the cross, the portrait of Jesus knocking
on the inn door? All we have is the schedule board,

its clattering
numbers and letters, the clock that chimes and chimes.

As pigeons descend to devour
a dropped sandwich,

the station agent’s voice echoes over
the PA speakers: Here is my ham on rye, with whom
I am well pleased.

I write postcards I don’t
send. Each one
is a confession.
I eat microwaved cheeseburgers until my stomach

rocks and pitches like a ship at sea.
Your voice on this cell phone is a bug
trapped in a jar. Your voice on this phone
is a sliver under my fingernail.

How many nights will you be staying with us?
Here is your key card. Here is a brochure
to help you interpret the stains

on the ceiling tile, to augur the roaches
and broken glass. Do not be alarmed if you hear

a shout, a trumpet. The high school band
tournament is this weekend.

Your signal faded. Your call dropped.
I can’t find my reservation number.

Your voice on this phone is like a ship at
Never mind, I found it.

Meanwhile, the greasy clouds go sliding around
on the sky
like gray eggs in a skillet. Meanwhile,

the laundromat beauty queens
in their wash-day sweatsuits thumb quarter

after quarter into the machines
and pray for miracles. Meanwhile, a shut-in dies buried
under a collection

of snow globes of Paris, where tiny couples walk
up and down the Champs-Élysées in endless winter.

A stranger in mirrored shades says Take off
your shoes, take off your jacket.

I do, I do. I unthread my belt in one long pull
that whispers it from its loops.

Will a skycap please bring a wheelchair to Gate 7B?
Jennifer H_____, please call your sister
in North Carolina. Roger M_____, Roger M_____,

please return to the security checkpoint
to retrieve a lost item.

Board by zone number. Sit in the wrong seat
just to meet a stranger, to apologize, to say

My mistake. You’re breaking up. If the engines fail, don’t worry:

on our cell phones, we’ll watch
live footage of our plane fireballing
into the ocean, our own
bodies bobbing in the wreckage and surf.

Look, that’s us waving.

I write postcards I don’t send. They all start
Dear ship at sea…

When I stop to throw
them into a dumpster, I glance down

into that darkness and see the continent where I was born, as if
from space, its cities lit
like clustered stars.

There are only two directions in the map
of my life: the way to you, and the way
from you.

8:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZGnwYy1C_O-S8
Filed under: poetry nick lantz poem 
April 10, 2014

What the Body Wants by Amy Gerstler in Ghost Girl


What the Body Wants by Amy Gerstler in Ghost Girl

7:54am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZGnwYy1Cf7DYL
Filed under: poetry poem Amy Gerstler 
April 8, 2014


It doesn’t get better, it gets different. Ask God,
Clean House, Help Others. Try taking a trip, not taking a trip,
swearing off forever— with and without solemn oath. This too
shall pass: this rented office space, these folding chairs,

this night where women droop into the room like low fog,

April 5, 2014
"Holy bed, twin & tiny, teach me
how to be firm with his body,
but to yield for his spirit,
give me something to carry home
long after morning when he’s risen,
once you’ve sprung back & forgotten
his shape, his weight,
how much to give to hold him."

From Pepper Girl by Jonterri Gadson, reviewed by Joelle Biele at The Rumpus.

"In “Virginia Baptist,” a hospital bed becomes a symbol of stability and flexibility while the speaker’s child is in a hospital psychiatric ward."

(via therumpus)

(via therumpus)