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I closed the book and changed my life and changed my life and changed my life and one more change and I was back here looking up at a blue sky with russets and the World was hypnotic but it wasn’t great. I wanted more range, maybe, more bliss, I didn’t know about bliss. Is bliss just a rant about the size of the bowl? The trance was the true thing, no, the rant, no, the sky, now, that icy whiteness. —Bruce Smith [img src]

I closed the book and changed my life and changed my life and changed my life and one more change and I was back here looking up at a blue sky with russets and the World was hypnotic but it wasn’t great. I wanted more range, maybe, more bliss, I didn’t know about bliss. Is bliss just a rant about the size of the bowl? The trance was the true thing, no, the rant, no, the sky, now, that icy whiteness.

—Bruce Smith

[img src]

Stand-out Poem in Your Pocket Day participants —<3

Stand-out Poem in Your Pocket Day participants —<3

&lt;3&#160;Tauba Auerbach.

<3 Tauba Auerbach.

pith:

Tuesday night’s Poetry Bomb event featuring Paul Muldoon, Leigh Stein, Melissa Broder, Cathy Park Hong, Kevin Grijalva and Faith Hahn.

(See the rest of the photos on Flickr)

Good times.

(via thetargetbird)

hamlet leggins«

(via visual-poetry)

Theresa Hak Kyung Cha

Theresa Hak Kyung Cha

(Source: gatekept, via musemathematics)

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theparisreview: Day Jobs of the Poets.

theparisreview:

Day Jobs of the Poets.

Miniature, by Yannis Ritsos The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea like yellow wheels for a very small carriage made for a child&#8217;s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite is buried in the old armchair. He doesn&#8217;t look at her. He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles, throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup&#8217;s handle. The clock holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed. The moment has gone. It&#8217;s too late now. Let&#8217;s drink our tea. Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage? To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain, with its little yellow wheels of lemon parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps, and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing? (trans. Edmund Keeley)

Miniature, by Yannis Ritsos

The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands
begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
made for a child’s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite
is buried in the old armchair. He doesn’t look at her.
He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup’s handle. The clock
holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It’s too late now. Let’s drink our tea.
Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage?
To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain,
with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?

(trans. Edmund Keeley)

Poster by Eve Fowler, from Gertrude Stein&#8217;s Tender Buttons.

Poster by Eve Fowler, from Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons.