To Die for the Heart’s Illusions | Allison Grayhurst

So, he came back today And nobody was really Happy about it, Although he didn’t have a clue, So typical—only thinking About himself and what He needs at any particular moment— A giant hole that craves filling But can never get enough, A force that sucks up all the light And leaves everything in darkness….

Reading Rumi, there you are beside my mother’s bed. A whiff of father’s smoke– orange passes overhead. Inside the bureau drawer laughter, a handkerchief of tears feels wintry. Moon night an invisible eye transfigures. The post Awake | Tress appeared first on Best Poetry. Go to Source Author: Best Poetry Online

With the directness of paint-thinner, Louise Carter’s “Marrickville” strips away at the euphemisms and self-told fictions a young poet must decorate her life with to sustain her vocation. A share house is “a glorified squat for people / who don’t want to pay full rent”. The poem takes its name from a historically working-class neighborhood…

                                    Weary of grandma’s antique Woodstock stories, Well-off Winnetka women wearing whatever; Winsome women, wind whipping their hair, Wielding wicked witticisms with no apology; Women wandering to where restaurants lie Among the pussywillows, women whispering, Weaving wildflowers, warbling…

the colleges, Britain was the culture. American bounty was ignored. Four Mark Rothko murals hung until they were battered and faded in the dining room of Holyoke Center, a large and absurdly ugly brutalist building just off Harvard Square; now they’re in the Fogg Museum, which at the time had a great collection of 19th-century American painting—Winslow Homers,…

The child will never recover From you But life goes on Doesn’t it Even though They shoot horses Don’t they Life endures In a manner That is hard To label You have destroyed What she believed in You have policed her life And the lives Of others You tell untruths Fabricate Deflect Blame Retract and…