Playing The Keys

Playing The Keys

A Poetry Blog

poetsorg:

Beautiful video poem by Kai Carlson-Wee.

Nice to meet you. #Cats #Cat #Fritz #Adorable #Cute #Goodmorning
Nice to meet you. #Cats #Cat #Fritz #Adorable #Cute #Goodmorning

Nice to meet you. #Cats #Cat #Fritz #Adorable #Cute #Goodmorning

Work Desk
Work Desk

Work Desk

theparisreview:

The waves wash in, warm and salty, leaving your eyebrows white and the edge of your cheekbone. Your ear aches. You are lonely. On the underside of a satin leaf, hot with shade, a scorpion sleeps. And one Sunday I will be shot brushing my teeth. I am a native of this island.
—Frank O’Hara, from “Pearl Harbor”
theparisreview:

The waves wash in, warm and salty, leaving your eyebrows white and the edge of your cheekbone. Your ear aches. You are lonely. On the underside of a satin leaf, hot with shade, a scorpion sleeps. And one Sunday I will be shot brushing my teeth. I am a native of this island.
—Frank O’Hara, from “Pearl Harbor”
theparisreview:

The waves wash in, warm and salty, leaving your eyebrows white and the edge of your cheekbone. Your ear aches. You are lonely. On the underside of a satin leaf, hot with shade, a scorpion sleeps. And one Sunday I will be shot brushing my teeth. I am a native of this island.
—Frank O’Hara, from “Pearl Harbor”

theparisreview:

The waves wash in, warm and salty,
leaving your eyebrows white and
the edge of your cheekbone. Your ear
aches. You are lonely. On the
underside of a satin leaf, hot
with shade, a scorpion sleeps. And
one Sunday I will be shot brushing
my teeth. I am a native of this island.

Frank O’Hara, from “Pearl Harbor”

A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of. It takes on a life and a will of its own. It might have proceeded differently—towards catastrophe, resignation, terror, despair—and I still would have to claim it. Valéry said that poetry is a language within a language. It is also a language beyond language, a meta-medium—that is, metabolic, metaphoric, metamorphic. A poet’s collected work is his book of changes. The great meditations on death have a curious exaltation. I suppose it comes from the realization, even on the threshold, that one isn’t done with one’s changes.
- Stanley Kunitz, “The Art of Poetry No. 29,” Poetry. (via literarymiscellany)

"Wild Thornberrys" Plugging Allen Ginsberg?

fuckyeahallenginsberg:

(via dyke:)

imageimage

Yes

playingthekeys:

You Must Believe In Spring
playingthekeys:

You Must Believe In Spring

playingthekeys:

You Must Believe In Spring

Reading Raymond Carver hurts so good.

theonion:

New Kindle Helps Readers Show Off By Shouting Title Of Book Loudly And Repeatedly 

strathspeyandthistle:

Can I have all of these in my house someday?

Can this be my house someday?