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    1. June.

      You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets. Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for...

      You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets.

      Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for poetry’s sake.

      Anyway. ‘Ere go. “June.”

      I thought your voice was music

      And your beauty - work of art.

      I found your jokes amusing,

      Ponygirl, a golden heart.

      Your company, a journey

      Which I never could depart

      I really felt I loved you,

      Well, I did once, at the start.

      .

      See, music can be different

      Some songs good, and others crap.

      Some begin melodically,

      Then get crashing in a snap.

      Starting subtle violins,

      Then it blares with metal scrap

      They lure you malevolent

      Some music is a trap.

      .

      Some artists Donatello,

      Others Jackson Pollock.

      Some art goes well with wine,

      Some turns you alcoholic.

      Some is deep and intricate,

      Some is purely bollocks

      Can’t call this a masterpiece

      I’m not sure what to call it.

      .

      Thought your lips were pure cuisine

      And your beauty - work of art.

      I never thought the kitchen

      Would have mold and rot at heart.

      The oven sent asunder

      All the counters ripped apart

      You’re a diner with one dish,

      And it’s a dry and sour tart.

      7 votes
    2. Dans la vie intérieure, le temps tient lieu d'espace. (In the inner life, time takes the place of space.) Simone Weil, La Pesanteur et la Grâce (Gravity and Grace) Inside [the black hole's event...

      Dans la vie intérieure, le temps tient lieu d'espace.
      (In the inner life, time takes the place of space.)
      Simone Weil, La Pesanteur et la Grâce (Gravity and Grace)

      Inside [the black hole's event horizon]… [what used to be a spatial
      coordinate] is the time. … The singularity… is not a place in space; it
      is a moment in time.
      James B. Hartle, Gravity: An Introduction to Einstein's General Relativity


      In my old poems I saw
      the sentimental one
      scenting sighs,    seeing scars
      everywhere, twisting them
      into words, arranging words
      so they fit in a grid,
      regular,    repeating.

      Preoccupied, she wanted the answer
      to the only question: What had made her
      like this? An effect that sought the cause and
      nothing else. Her city caught in a verdant
      early summer day, light abounded; she
      felt time had been running out silently.

      How much has really changed ever since?

      I now have an answer, and more.
      She made me; cause, effect. Questions!
      How will I be? What will I be?
      What am I?

      I am a tiny bit of what she wasn't:
      the all-embracing space and time beyond
      her self, her fear of being forgotten,
      solitude unwitnessed, and pain futile.

      I am not just her descendant either.
      Holding her precious gift of exposed self,
      I too am exposed to what I am not,
      asking how much has changed, what I'm changing.


      This is a new one I wrote today.

      Edit: replaced one "the" with "an".

      6 votes