asymmetries
Nicola Cayless.
Looking for light in words.





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I have this little notebook and I have five little scrawled lines of maybe one day little poems and it’s strange, because I have this very little heart and the words are too big for me to wear, like a baggy old cardigan that’s warm and smells wonderful but is far too big for little old me.

Collection update: I have first drafts of about twenty poems. This is an exhilarating process. x

#literarycat

How much would you be willing to spend for a collection of about 40-60 poems?

If you were to buy my collection, would you want it to be entirely new pieces, or a mixture of poems from my tumblr and unpublished pieces?

I am working on a collection. I’m not sure yet what it will be called but I’m doing this. I’m going to publish a book of my works. I won’t be publishing many poems here in the interim as a result, but I will still be present and updating you all.

Gregory Sherl
song lyrics for the dead

Once I saw a beard-scraggled old man
who tripped on others’ shoelaces, and
signed the cross at street lamps.
I heard him singing a wordless hymn:
the rage of love, the rage of love,
and you are awake and blinding.

Once I was the universe inside of her;
I set her hips aflame. Now you are mine,
demon-child, warborn child, you tear me
apart. And I hear her singing quietly,
the rage of love, the rage of love,
and you are awake and blinding.

Once I was the tomorrow of today,
and you held me close by nightfall.
You trimmed strings with your teeth,
you snapped bones with your eyes, and sung;
the rage of love, the rage of love,
and you are awake and blinding.

❝ He ido marcando con cruces de fuego
El atlas blanco de tu cuerpo.
Mi boca era una araña que cruzaba escondiéndose.
En ti, detrás de ti, temerosa, sedienta.

— From “XIII: He Ido Marcando” by Pablo Neruda

to soothe eliot and auden and pound; the worst is nearly over

And if, like Yeats,
I loom: a scepter
in the South of France
to warn you of the moon—

Then breathe,
unfriends, breathe.
We are excised:
but poetry is
mysticism unraveled.

I am simply Ghost,
haunting by the wings.

You have the stage.

Let the sunrise
sing.