WHITNEY RICKETTS

The love of form is a love of endings. — Louise Gluck

September 9, 2014 at 1:06am
23 notes
Reblogged from lunchboxpoems

SIDE EFFECTS

lunchboxpoems:

First you wake in disbelief, then
In sadness and grief and when you wake
For the last time, the forest you’ve been
Looking for will turn out to be
Right in the middle of your chest.

DEAN YOUNG

September 4, 2014 at 8:13pm
3 notes

"In a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald, Thomas Wolfe said there are two kinds of writers: putter-inners (like himself) or leaver-outers (like Fitzgerald). These categories, like all categories, are of course oversimplified, but they still illustrate a great point. Just like saying yes, saying no creates your story. It’s what you leave out, not just what you put in, that forms a story, that makes a life.

Creative pursuits hold an inherent need for choice, whether we consider music, art, literature, dance, or design. Every great story is surrounded by white space of some kind. Blank spaces are powerful. The author and designer choose not to lay out a page with text to every edge. Its white space is part of the story it tells. What we choose to leave out creates the story.”

A LESSON, by Liz Danico

August 20, 2014 at 11:32pm
0 notes

11:28pm
9 notes
Reblogged from lunchboxpoems

I’LL REMEMBER AUGUST

lunchboxpoems:

The dog Schafer says to
put it to sleep. Let it down easy,
he says. There is no thicker love
than to suffer. Schafer says
the gray is getting thin. We aren’t
losing track of its bones
these days. We consult Schafer
as to what can be done; he suggests
we let it go. Sooner or later, we will shake
it off, understand we never would’ve
held it so close if it weren’t for that one
time. I nod, and then you nod. I’ll remember
August, I say, not looking at you
or at Schafer, how embarrassingly the heat
suffocated a home of us, how happy we were
that it melted our hair and insides.

ALLISON LEIGH

August 13, 2014 at 8:14am
7 notes
Reblogged from lunchboxpoems

LEARN

lunchboxpoems:

You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then – to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the thing for you.

T.H. WHITE

July 31, 2014 at 10:00am
1 note

July 27, 2014 at 4:22pm
4 notes
The Jeff Bridges AMA blew my mind.

The Jeff Bridges AMA blew my mind.

July 25, 2014 at 2:40pm
4 notes

Don’t wait for permission to make something that’s interesting or amusing to you. Just do it now. Don’t wait. Find a story idea, start making it, give yourself a deadline, show it to people who’ll give you notes to make it better. Don’t wait till you’re older, or in some better job than you have now. Don’t wait for anything. Don’t wait till some magical story idea drops into your lap. That’s not where ideas come from. Go looking for an idea and it’ll show up. Begin now. Be a fucking soldier about it and be tough.

— IRA GLASS

July 12, 2014 at 2:30am
9 notes

July 3, 2014 at 1:45am
1 note
JOEY VELTKAMP

JOEY VELTKAMP

July 1, 2014 at 4:34am
5 notes

XXI

The dark lintels, the blue and foreign stones
of the great round rippled by stone implements
the midsummer night light rising from beneath
the horizon — where I said “a cleft of light”
I meant this. And this is not Stonehenge
simply nor any place but the mind
casting back to where her solitude,
Shared, could be chosen without loneliness,
not easily nor without pains to stake out
the circle, the heavy shadows, the great light.
I choose to be the figure in that light,
half-blotted by darkness, something moving
across that space, the color of stone
greeting the moon, yet more than stone:
a woman. I choose to walk here. And to draw this circle.

ADRIENNE RICH

June 16, 2014 at 5:11pm
20 notes
Reblogged from lunchboxpoems

IF THOSE BLOSSOMS DON’T COME

lunchboxpoems:

if the tangerine doesn’t
fill the house with thick
sweetness. If you put
your hands over your
ears one more time
when I’m talking. If
there’s another month
of wanting to sleep all
day, the cat the warmest
sweet thing I can imagine.
If this damn rain doesn’t
let up, I’m going to
have to rewrite the story
you’ve got in your head
about us and I don’t
think you will like
the ending

LYN LIFSHIN

June 10, 2014 at 8:36am
0 notes
Favorite people. (photo by Drew)

Favorite people. 

(photo by Drew)

June 7, 2014 at 12:02pm
1 note

I think we’re like the wind and sea
you’re burning up, I’m cooling down
you’re up, I’m down
you’re blind, I see

(Source: Spotify)

June 2, 2014 at 11:40pm
2 notes

THE LONG HAND WISHES IT WERE USED

Sometimes I wish I didn’t think in words
and that instead for each thought I thought I drew upon an image,
and that I was able to organize each image in a linear way that would be like sort of like reading
and that instead of trying to describe the edges around something
I could just think the color around the edges of the image to be darker,
that the detail on the image could become more or less detailed depending
on how much clarity I believe I needed to disclose at the time
For instance, instead of saying love, I could just think watermelon
I could just think of a watermelon cut in half, lying open on a picnic table
The inside would be just as moist as it was pink
I could picture cutting up pieces and giving them out to my friends.
It wouldn’t have to be sunny
It wouldn’t have to be anything else then just that
It would really simplify my walk home at night,
where every thought I think is some contrived line I repeat over and over to myself
Words are always just replaced with new ones
The pictures would never need to know otherwise

JACKIE CLARK