"I would rather die of passion than of boredom."
"Going through a drawer I found the submissions/applications log I’ve kept off and on over the years. Just in case you think it’s all been roses I’d like to report that Yaddo rejected me (as recently as 2011). McDowell rejected me. Hedgebrook rejected me twice. The Georgia Review rejected me and Ploughshares rejected me and Tin House rejected me, as did about twenty other journals and magazines. Both The Sun and The Missouri Review rejected me before I appeared in their pages. Literary Arts declined to give me a fellowship three times before I won one. I’ve applied for an NEA five times and it’s always been a no. Harper’s magazine never even bothered to reply. I say it all the time but I’ll say it again: keep on writing. Never give up. Rejection is part of a writer’s life. Then, now, always."
How relationships work:
I like your butt.
However, I can notice other butts. They can be nice too.
But your butt is my favourite butt. It’s the nicest butt. Because it’s mine. And I can touch it.
Is this a Finding Nemo quote? Seems kind of racy for Disney.
(Source: deadybearspicnic, via waiting4thetardis)
National Poetry Month #1
variations of this luminous hour, metro station
it’s not the way the earth hums that tells me—look later, just after descent. see, we are swayed by landscape, still wild and abundant—
this city asks for entrance—we agree to prolong our talk by the riverfront. the train will not come again until daybreak, but smile for me.
i sometimes do things backwards to better understand—in sum: what is revealed cannot keep us company. lift the corners of your eyes.
the yellow lights of bridges will reach some baritone sadness. it will show in pictures. tomorrow—sunshine and bursts of dreams will admit that we belong out there.
we want neither isolation nor crowd, but there is flooding, my dear. we’ve accrued plenty. we’ve ruined our hearts. oh the witnesses—
- by O. Ayes
These last two lines are like a sucker punch that I keep coming back for over and over again. Happy Nation Poetry Month. Write things.
Happy Easter a day late, kids.