Telemachus' Detachment - Louise Glück

When I was a child looking

at my parents' lives, you know

what I thought? I thought

heartbreaking. Now I think

heartbreaking, but also

insane. Also

very funny.

Death's Secret - Gösta Ågren

Poem (for Ema) - Nikki Giovanni

though i do wonder

why you intrigue me

i recognize that an exceptional moth

is always drawn

to an exceptional flame

you’re not at all what you appear

to be

though not so very different

i've not learned

the acceptable way of saying

you fascinate me

i’ve not even learned

how to say i like you

without frightening people

away

sometimes i see things

that aren’t really there

like warmth and kindness

when people are mean

but sometimes i see things

like fear and want to soothe it

or fatigue and want to share it

or love and want to receive it

is that weird

you think everyone is weird

though you’re not really hypocritical

you just practice not being

what you want to be

and fail to understand

how others would dare

to be otherwise

that’s weird to me

flames don’t flicker

forever

and moths are born to be burned

it’s an unusual way

to start a friendship

but nothing lasts forever

Love Poem - Richard Brautigan

It’s so nice

to wake up in the morning

all alone

and not have to tell somebody

you love them

when you don’t love them

any more

Picture by Unknown, found on Public Domain (if you own the rights and would like it removed, just contact me!). This is the full poem, not an excerpt.

Untitled - Franz Wright

Will I always be eleven,

lonely in this house,

reading books

that are too hard for me,

in the long fatherless hours.

The terrible hours of the window,

the rain-light

on the page,

awaiting the letter,

the phone call,

still your strange elderly child.

You Must Accept - Kate Light

You must accept that’s who he really is.

You must accept you cannot be his

unless he is yours. No compromise.

He is a canvas on which paint never dries;

a clay that never sets, steel that bends

in a breeze, a melody that when it ends

no one can whistle. He is not who

you thought. He’s not. He is a shoe

that walks away: “I will not go where you

want to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”

“I’m not. I have the sole of a lover

but don’t know what love is.” “Discover

it, then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”

“Sometimes.” “Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”

You have to hear what he is telling you

and see what he is; how it is killing you.