I suppose I’ll start off today with another poem I wrote a while back, inspired by a book, which I was reminded of by an instagram post of similar style by Shira Erlichman, whose poem I think I shared a few days ago.

“House of Leaves, as Autumn becomes February”, James Bowden

I like this trend of having poems I wrote to share here. Obviously not sustainable, but, how lovely.

Today is mostly bits. Not much poem. Here’s a bit I came across that I liked, even though I haven’t really bothered to read the myth of Sappho yet:
Sappho begins with a sweet apple and ends in infinite hunger., Anne Carson.
Hunger. Hunger hunger.

This is perhaps the dream of midlife: to begin again, to have somehow absorbed what has been learned while casting it off for good., Dustin Illingworth.

Grief is love’s souvenir. It’s our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I love well. Here is my proof that I paid the price., Glennon Doyle Melton.

Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go., Jamie Anderson.

A lot on grief, I guess. It makes me feel okay about it though. Eve was asking me the other day what percent of my poems were romantic, about girls or whatever, and it’s probably around half, and like, I don’t feel like I have much choice. My receipt. Strong feeling, so strong art now. That is what I have, no I did not ask for it but here it is. Anyhow, this makes me think of some lyrics from Bon Iver’s song “Wisconsin”, which I don’t really feel is a great song musically at the moment but good words:
Love is love’s reprieve, and Love is love’s critique. Anyhow, That was Wisconsin, that was yesterday,

Le déluge is never really over, so to speak.