Hi tildizens, the NYC subway often has posters with a poem and artwork on them which provide some relief from the ads that decorate the trains. On my commute today, I found this poem by Srikanth Reddy quite tantalizing.

Everything

by Srikanth Reddy

She was watching the solar eclipse
through a piece of broken bottle

when he left home.
He found a blue kite in the forest

on the day she lay down
with a sailor. When his name changed,

she stitched a cloud to a quilt
made of rags. They did not meet,

so they never could be parted.
So she finished her prayer,

& he folded his map of the sea.

Unfortunately, the single piece of related online discourse I can find is a two-line comment on a 2008 blog post of the poem. So tell me: do you like this poem? What do you make of it? Is it about a couple that splits up due to infidelity (as Google's gemini ai told me) or people that are connected despite having never met (as Mistral's le chat claims)? What of the kite? Why is it blue? Why might his name have changed? To me, it seems he must be a sailor (but different than the one she lays with?) and she relatively poor. We're reading a lament of a missed connection, perhaps.

an endless blue. my island shore.
my quiet voice. a crashing roar.
my little feet mark steps in sand.
a big red bucket in my hand.

cold water glides across my gills.
it tastes of dark and salt and kills.
i hunt for food hoping to make
what others all of me want made.

i cuff my pants and dip my toes
to cool myself from hot sand's glow.
my bucket drinks with thirsty lips
salt water, sand, and -- wait, what's this ?

in rest i lie where currents go:
to waters warm, bright, and shallow.
a sudden wake from surface stirs:
swimming around a big red blur.

i look at her. i look at him.
i puff in fear. i'm uncertain.
i dip my fingers holding shrimp.
i take a bite. we make friends quick.

The Skibidi Wonderland

Imagine a world with skibidi rizz

Where the rivers run with flowberry fizz

Every tree has a W gyat

Everyone is ruled under Kai Cenat

Everything, even the hills looksmax

Criminals will have to pay a fanum tax

Every December we celebrate Rizzmas

Where we get candy and gifts from St. Grimace

From the screen to the ring to the pen to the king

Every October we celebrate Hawktuahween

Everyone follows the sigma grindset

Everyone thinks with the sigma mindset

The skibidi sky has a rizzy aurora

All citizens have skibidi aura

Can you imagine a world where all is rizzy?

Can you think of a world where all is skibidi?

Can you fathom a world where all cheese is drippy?

'Cause I yearn for a world where I can hit the griddy

The earth, once scarred by shadow’s hand,
Now trembles soft, a waking land.
From soil soaked with roots that bled,
New shoots arise where death had fed.

The storm has passed, its howling stilled,
The air now warm, the silence filled.
With whispers light, the seeds take hold,
Their leaves like sparks of green and gold.

The soil hums with tender grace,
A pulse of life begins its race.
No longer bound by gloom’s demand,
It rises tall, a fearless stand.

Though remnants of the past remain,
They sing of hope, not loss or pain.
The cycle turns, as it must do—
To bury old, and birth the new.

In shadows cast, a serpent sleek,
With bands of black and white.
In self-encircling, fate draws near,
A moment tense, a future unclear.

Yet, ere the bite, a raptor bold,
Descends with grace, a tale unfolds.
Its talons clasp the serpent’s plight,
A dance of choices in the fading light.

Two paths converge, in present’s hold,
Humanity’s tale, a story bold.
Betwixt self-will and forces unseen,
The dance of fate, on history’s screen.

Mythos

A tree unwatched does soundless fall

Without an eye its crash to mark

And starborn light in vain does call

While hearts incline instead to dark

So natural course unseen dictates

The wave of time as life begins

Nor, in our barques asea in fate

Ken we the source of distant winds

Now blown to gale, now to 'phoon —

We strike our sail, but none can dock

Our crafts beset do founder soon

For to the hours we're firmly nocked

In time's swift drifts all 'twined we are

Yet each must pass the stellar door

Through deep'ning age pass on afar

And thus return to astral moor

gusts of wind pick up in pace
and oaken leaves they make to shake.
chirps and flaps as birds make haste
and hooves all trample in escape.

above, the clouds, they morph and move
bearing an ocean in their womb.
forest florals stare in rue;
effulgence dims as darkness blooms.

the rumbling clouds envelope all.
a drip, a drop. and the rain falls.
and though the canopy may stall,
a dribble starts and rends the wall.

a torrent soars towards the floor.
the land, to sea, returns once more.
in time, the green but will restore.
in time, the clouds but will reform.

i wrote this at a creative writing workshop with the following three randomly generated words as the prompt: frequency, dribble, oak.

I've recently finished Mary Oliver's A Poetry Handbook and have begun writing my own poems (just for fun). I feel though that I may be limited by my having read little poetry. So, I'm searching for anthology recommendations to get some inspiration.

I'm not really looking for collections of "classics," just a large collection of poems generally considered to be "very good," and maybe leaning more towards contemporary (late 19th century onwards?). But I'd welcome recommendations outside of these guidelines too if anyone feels particularly strongly about some collection.

© 2014 u/ebonGavia

Love

Love's sweetly poisoned darts

Are wasted on this heart

Inerrant though they fly

My shielding gives them lie

These centuries-builded walls

The keenest edge forestall

Thus armored sit I here

At siren's call do sneer

By hours, years do toll

And cold becomes my soul

That blackguard, Love, I spurn

From treach'rous Hope I turn

At length my vigil wanes

Naught but ennui remains

With apathetic sigh

And dry, half-lidded eye

My senses, weak, are dulled

To fitful sleep are lulled

Thus primed for artifice

Undone by artlessness

A 'doring glance unlocks

My bitter heart. A shock —

A shining word, a koan —

The fatal shot is flown

Each quick'ning touch, now soft

Our scales, forgotten, doffed

Bewitched by winsome eyes

We don our honeyed ties

Yet venom's stings presage

Our bittersweet malaise

But how is it that we

Bemoan this malady?

In love — by Love, lovesick

Yet, healed, we poison pick

No Cupid bends a string

We prick ourselves, willing.

I desire more poetry on this site. So here is more poetry!

I believe this is Cummings due to the style and some cursory internet searches but I was unable to find an authoritative source. If anyone has one I'll edit it in! The formatting is taken from a book (I discovered this in a photo online).

the great advantage of being alive
(instead of undying)is not so much
that mind no more can disprove than prove
what heart may feel and soul may touch
--the great(my darling) happens to be
that love are in we,that love are in we

and here is a secret they will never share
for whom create is less than have
or one times one than when times where--
that we are in love,that we are in love
with us they've nothing times nothing to do
(for love are in we am in i am in you)

this world(as timorous itsters all
to call their cowardice quite agree)
shall never discover our touch and feel
--for love are in we are in love are in we;
for you are and i am and we are(above
and under all possible worlds)in love

a billion brains may coax undeath
from fancied fact and spaceful time--
no heart can leap,no soul can breathe
but by the sizeless truth of a dream
whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea.
For love are in you am in i are in we

Hello everyone :)

I write as a hobby and have had an article in my drafts for a long, long time. In essence, I'd like to discuss the "repetitive nature of human tribulations/suffering/life", that is, the fact that regardless of superficial characteristics we all are confronted with extremely similar circumstances throughout our lives.

Whether it's 10 years into our lives or 40, there's joy, heartbreak, loss, a need to belong, some desire for freedom, a need for a purpose, lack of direction, obsession with a newly found direction, etc.

I'd love to come across poets, philosophers, psychologists, etc who have touched upon this subject: we are not defined by our circumstances, as they are, in very broad strokes, largely the same, but by how we are able to adapt and reinvent ourselves amidst those same circumstances.

Looking forward for your answers :)

Thanks!

So as an American whose love of poetry started in early childhood with A A Milne and Lewis Carroll, I have a theory that the teaching of poetry in typical schools (at least for my generation which may be 30 years out of date re what happens now) that poetry as taught is almost tailor made to destroy any interest in poetry. I like to compare it to introducing music by teaching music theory.

So, if anyone here reads poetry and is willing to talk about it, what poems would you use if you wanted to come up with a gateway drug. They should be easy to appreciate. And on the flip side, if you met someone who said they were really into poetry, are there sophisticated poems that you think are just cool and insightful and moving and impressive in some way? Please feel free to explain your choices or to talk about your experience with poetry in or outside of education.

The concept

It's a box that contains a receipt printer and an interface with several buttons. A user would press a button that reflects their emotional state (happy, sad, anxious, etc.), then the machine prints out a more-or-less appropriate poem on a receipt printer, beautifully formatted and embellished with simple artwork.

It could be occasionally repurposed for certain themes, like Pride Month to print out queer poems.

I want to place it someplace public and well-trafficked, like Dolores Park or on Castro Street.

Feedback

I like poetry. The idea of a (free) vending machine that gives me a poem to uplift my day excites me. But I wonder if this appeals to others enough to be worth fully realizing. I don't want to spend time and money building something that'll go totally unloved.

Also curious about anti-vandalism measures or ideas. I'm sure some jerk will try graffiti-ing it or peeing on it.

Lastly, anyone interested in collaborating?

T'was picking fruit down under, where
I learned the truth of underwear
Davenport made the best boxer
costed more but last forever

At first my junk was hanging loose
no more briefs snuggling like a noose
but soon I loved it hanging free
it's quicker when you have to pee

Decade later holes not in sight
Bought some more in case they might
Thought they'd be with me till the end
Thirty years they've been my friend

Now I'm down to last seven pair
Out of business they went I fear
Brought down low by cheap knock offs
Where oh where is my Undie Guru now?

I sang her name in words forgotten
Rough bellows of lost yearning
A hurt hound without path
A sorrow meaning without an end

I heard the rain, heard the ocean
Lick the sand without defect
The water, where it falls
Is always beautiful all the same

I saw, my God, that you made her
Carefully crooked, imperfect
And inside her deep mournful eyes
The tears that I could never shed

The sky is clear
except for some
soft grey clouds
beyond the hill

The early setting sun shines orange
on the woods
and the houses
that sit atop the ridge

Not a single bird crosses
the pale blue sky
though I can hear
their chorus
and a gentle wind blows
cold
on my face

I can smell the traffic
from the road behind my house
mingling with
the earthy smell of trees
from the field in front

Neither my hot black coffee
nor my dressing gown
are enough
to keep the
cold
at bay
on this
the first truly frosty day
of the year