Top Ten Written Poems

Hey y'all!I'm here today to do Top Ten Tuesday, a weekly meme hosted by the lovely ladies over at The Broke and the Bookish. This week is a bit of a freebie topic so I decided to do something that most of y'all who follow me on Twitter know about, but isn't as prevalent on the blog.Poetry! I'm a massive poetry fanatic and I devour them - anything with synesthesia especially. In my book taste especially, I tend to gravitate towards lyrical writing (Tahereh Mafi, Maggie Stiefvater, Lauren DeStefano) and such. Recently, I've also been getting into spoken poetry to further my goal of pursuing out-of-genre. These are just a few well-loved poems/poetic thoughts that I've scrounged together - I'm going to do a spoken poetry day on the blog sometime soon as well, but for now, I hope y'all enjoy these!1. He Loves the Rain by Shinji Moon (my absolute hands-down favorite ever)I think we all speak a different kind of languagethan each other, but you sound a whole lot like coffee on aSunday morning and the rain is falling bitter against the windowpaneand your elbows are making holes in the countertops, andI only want to tell you that I wish I was as close as the threads of yourt-shirt, and if I can’t be that, then I’ll be content withdrinking my drink beside you, with the rain sloppy open mouth kissingthe roof, trying to dismantle the etymology of a conversationthat falls out of the realm of words.Shinji Moon2. (you are what you eat)she was referring to my coke and fries, butthat night i ate a dandelion salad,no dressing.the next day: nectar and rose petalsfor breakfast; my parentsdon't ask questions, you know howteenage girls are these daysat lunch, i ask forwater in a glass, no ice;i eat it all and delight in my newfoundtransparancy, the way iflow and ebbbackand forth.i have feathers for dinner and you hold meso i don't get carried offby the breeze.i swallow a firefly by accidentand glow all night long.(maybe tomorrow, i think,i'll drink the windand disappear)(j.c.)3. THE LANTERN IN THE LIFEBOAT by Iain S. ThomasI am nervous. I'm afraid. But I will stand here in the white hot heat of you. I will play Russian roulette with your playlists. I will tell jokes I'm not sure you'll find funny. I will hold on until there is no more reason to. And in the end, I will break the stars and resurrect the sun.4. I think about this... by Mila JaroniecI think about this sometimes, how much of life is really just comprised of aptly timed accidents. How we work so hard planning and strategizing and everything else when those skills are illusory life tools at best. How we like to believe we’re in total control of our situations, but when things start to happen, really happen, when things suddenly start to pulse and detonate all over the place, what we really need to know how to do is adapt, fall off the ledge and land safely on our feet. I think about this too, how nearly every valuable thing I’ve hit upon in life has been the result of some kind of lucky or horrible accident. And how completely awesome yet unflinchingly absurd that is.I think about this sometimes, what it would have been like if we had worked out. If I had chosen you instead of not-you. Would you still be saying all those sweet things and making large-scale projections about our idyllic future? Would you still be sending me new songs to listen to every day and notebooks through the mail? Would I still idealize you just as much? I don’t know. Part of me likes to think we could have been happy if given the option but the other part has a feeling we would have cracked right down the middle, your neuroses were what I liked about you but maybe your neuroses plus my neuroses would have been too many. We’ll never know at this point, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.I think about this sometimes, what it would be like to have a second, completely separate life to live alongside this one, just for fun. Just to test out the various potentialities present-day me will never get to realize, like becoming an Olympic gymnast or finishing my neuroscience degree. I wonder if leading parallel lives would eventually get too crazy or whether I’d be able to switch between them, flip cleanly over from one to the other like a light switch. I wonder if parallel me would actually do anything different than what present-day me is doing. I wonder if parallel and present-day me would eventually converge. I wonder if wondering about this means I have too much time on my hands.I think about this sometimes, what life would have been like if I had never met you. What it would have been like if you never came along when you did, never gave me whiplash, never crawled into my heart, if I hadn’t fallen for you or for anyone at all, just stayed blissfully unaware of love and heartbreak and their sides of horrible and delicious feelings. If I had never met you, I think I would have turned out different. Not better, but maybe more careful. More stable. Or maybe more clueless, relegated to making those high school mistakes in college and beyond instead. What I don’t like to think about is the fact that a part of me will always love you, and it’s nothing that logic or time can starve out. It’s like autumn happening in October or the recurrence of a particular time of day. It just is. And that’s it.I think about this sometimes, what it would be like to start over, just shut down and reassemble, shed every single layer and do it again, differently. Quit everything, sell everything, pack up and disappear without a trace or a last goodbye. It’s a tempting idea that’s constantly in the back of my head, but I never actually act on it because I have a pretty strong feeling (or strong literary evidence, rather) that that kind of move usually and/or always ends in disillusionment. But that doesn’t mean I’m not tempted. In fact I’m pretty sure the temptation has evolved into a sort of coping mechanism: when things get really awful all I tell myself is “you could leave if you wanted,” and for some reason knowing that, repeating that makes me feel more capable.Mila Jaroniec5. The wind, one brilliant day by Antonio Machado The wind, one brilliant day, calledto my soul with an odor of jasmine.'In return for the odor of my jasmine,I'd like all the odor of your roses.''I have no roses; all the flowersin my garden are dead.''Well then, I'll take the withered petalsand the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.'the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?'6. someone asked me what home was... by e.e. cummings

someone asked me what home was
and all i could think of were the stars
on the tip
of your tongue.
the flowers sprouting from your mouth
the roots
in the gaps
between your fingers
the ocean echohing
inside of your
7. Stay by Andrea Gibson
…’cause god knows we have smoked the stars,made wishes on falling ashes.something’s gotta give,it may as well be your fingers.touch me ‘til my ribs become piano keys,'til there is sheet music scrolled across the inside of my lungscause i’m breaking old patterns.for anyone else i would rhyme and end this line with saturn,but you are not the type to wear rings,and i’m not the type to want to celebrate foreverwhen right now is forever walking down the aisles unnoticed.hold me.sing me lullabies at dawnwhen i’ve been up all night painting the windto remind myself that things are moving.
8. when the violets roar at the sun by Charles Bukowski
they've got us in the cageruined of grace and sensesand the heart roars like a lionat what they've done to us.
9. Body Thesaurus by Jennifer Militello
In your dream, the act of breathing is a red-headed girlwith a body lactose-pale and livid against the skinof water. A crack along the porcelain cup of this,colored all absinthe with you. The closed white shuttersof your backbone as you sleep toward wrists spillingtheir listless snowflakes farther south. Mouth:night's lilacs branching insolubly. Hair hissing, stems.Mouth: the hospital: your houses are asking chemicalsout of the dark. Your lids are the lime-lined,impromptu graves of thieves. As a mind,your body is a wall of leaves; let its edges whispera collage of liquids singing, lips, the sangria weeds.10. Grace is wild... by Doug WilsonGrace is wild. Grace unsettles everything. Grace overflows the banks. Grace messes up your hair. Grace is not tame.
11. i am not the first person you loved by Clementine von Radics
i am not the first person you are not the first person i looked at with a mouthful of forevers.
we have both known loss like the sharp edges of a knife.
we have both lived with lips more scar tissue than skin.
our love came unannounced in the middle of the night.our love came when we’d given up on asking love to come.
i think that has to be part of its miracle.
this is how we heal.
i will kiss you like forgiveness. you will hold me like i’m hope.
our arms will bandage and we will press promises between us like flowers in a book.i will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin.
i will write novels to the scar of your nose.
i will write a dictionary of all the words i have used trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally found you.
and i will not be afraidof your scars.
i know sometimes it’s still hard to let me see you in all your cracked perfection,but please know: whether it’s the days you burn more brilliant than the sunor the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,you are the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.i will love you when you are a still day.i will love you when you are a hurricane.
clementine von radics

I might do this more often! I adore poetry and it's a huge proportion of my identity as a reader. What do y'all think?

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