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books read during 2015

Jan. 29th, 2016 | 08:16 pm

as always, this doesn't count the articles, poems, or stacks of awful student drafts I read. holler if you wanna talk books

Hyperboreal - Joan Naviyuk Kane
1984 - George Orwell
Fierce Attachments: A Memoir - Vivian Gornick
The Room Where I Was Born - Brian Teare
Girls to the Front: The True Story of the Riot Grrrl Revolution - Sara Marcus
An Untamed State - Roxane Gay
Goldengrove - Francine Prose
The Unspeakable: And Other Subjects of Discussion - Meghan Daum
Your Presence is Requested at Suvanto - Maile Chapman
Impossible Motherhood: Testimony of an Abortion Addict - Irene Vilar
Still Alice - Lisa Genova
The Boston Girl - Anita Diamant
The Namesake - Jhumpa Lahiri
Treasury of Czech love poems, quotations & proverbs-multiple poets
The government of nature-Aafa Michael Weaver
Bone Map - Sara Eliza Johnson
American Ghost- Hannah Nordhaus
Mercy-Lucille Clifton
Hard Love Province-Marilyn Chin
Dark Things - Novica Tadic
Our Andromeda--Brenda Shaughnessy (repeat)
The Dead and the Living - Sharon Olds (repeat)
Native Guard--Natasha Tretheway
The Scapegoat--Daphne Du Maurier
Body of a girl--Leah Stewart
The shutter of snow- Emily Holmes Coleman

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whoooooooooaaaaa poem

Aug. 30th, 2012 | 01:59 am
mood: toucheddevastated/moved/amazing

I literally read this ten times in a row tonight and cried every time.

"Romance"--Ruth Stone

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(no subject)

Jan. 25th, 2010 | 02:17 pm
mood: blahblah

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Sep. 14th, 2009 | 12:01 pm
mood: lethargicdread.

Just another fairy land of the raped and pillaged.

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(no subject)

Sep. 4th, 2009 | 01:35 pm

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This is what we've come to?

Feb. 28th, 2009 | 04:44 pm

Because talking is simply a thing of the past.


It preserves your spirit VIRTUALLY for successive generations...

Ugh modern life, modern nausea.

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Feb. 16th, 2009 | 05:34 pm

"My Handwriting" Yevgeny Yevtushenko

My handwriting is not calligraphic.
Not following the rules of beauty,
words stagger about,
as if clobbered on the jaw.

But you, the descendant, my textual critic,
following on the heels of the past,
take stock of those gales
your ancestor got caught in.

He walked on a pugnacious coastal freighter,
a bit arrogant,
but you
should see beyond the pitched handwriting
not only the author’s traits.

Your ancestor wrote while tossed about,
not kept too warm by squalls,
like having a pack
of his usual cigarettes.

Of course, far off we made our way courageously,
but it’s hard to write a line,
when your head is smashed with relish
against the bulkhead.

Risking skin and bones,
it’s tough to sing acclaim,
when what you see compels you
not to praise, but only to throw up.

When churning water strangles motors
and a wave’s curl is aimed at your forehead,
then smudges are better than flourishes.
They’re black--but true.

fingers simply grew numb.
the swell slyly tormented.
the pen jerked with uncertainty
away from some mean shoal.

But if through all the clumsiness,
through the clutches of awkwardness,
an idea breaks through the way a freighter on
the Lena
breaks through to the arctic shore--

then, descendant, be slow to curse the style,
don’t judge an ancestor severely,
and even in the handwriting of the poet
find a solution to the enigma of time.

Translated by Albert C. Todd

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(no subject)

Feb. 14th, 2009 | 11:02 am

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this afternoon

Feb. 7th, 2009 | 01:57 pm

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(no subject)

Jan. 25th, 2009 | 07:47 pm

I have a deadly and chronic addiction to dreams and escape, dreams of escape, and escaping into my dreams (if they are not all one in the same).

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