L. V., I Found This Poem When I Wanted To Be So Awfully Happy That I Never Need To Write Poetry Again

L. V., i found this poem when i wanted to be so awfully happy that i never need to write poetry again

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literaryvein

9 months ago

"Bal du moulin de la Galette"
("Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette")
Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1876

Words by L. V.:

there is comfort in being alone
and being sad
not a lot of people around you understand this
not a lot of people understand you
look for the people who do

L. V., i found this poem alone in the middle of a crowd

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literaryvein

11 months ago

thanks for the poem you wrote me 🥰

Thanks for sharing your story with me <3

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writeblr writers on tumblr poets on tumblr anonymous spilled ink but also which one was it? if you don't mind telling me

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literaryvein

11 months ago

loving how your posting so actively as of late xo

All thanks to the queue system. I don't know why I never really utilised it for years.

For some reason, the system chose 10am and 10pm "US/Eastern" time zone to post automatically.

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literaryvein

6 months ago

Film still (detail) from Ponyo, 2008
dir. Hayao Miyazaki

I remember the way you pointed at a child’s lost toy

bobbing up and down the spine of a wave.

You know, you can be gentle when you’re not trying to drown this city.

L. V., i found this poem begging you to be gentle with my heart

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literaryvein

11 months ago

very nice posts👍👍

Thank you!

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literaryvein

11 months ago

Detail of "Das Signal" ("The signal")
by: Hanno Karlhuber, 1995

I’ll admit there are bursts of happiness in my life

but I am left wondering with whom I should share them with

L. V., i found this poem staring at me from under the bed

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literaryvein

5 months ago

I literally love you bro both of yr blogs help out sm w my writing!!

🌻🖤

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finally someone who loves me lol no actually really glad to hear this. keep writing <3

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literaryvein

9 months ago

Detail of "Evening Landscape with Rising Moon" by Vincent van Gogh (Dutch, 1853-1890)

Strawberry Moon

On TV, a boy cries over the blood-soaked body of a 32-year-old woman.
The editors gave the footage a black and white filter
so that the only way we would be able to tell how deep the red goes
was by listening to the boy’s grief-stricken howl.

Someone changes the channel, complaining
that they shouldn’t be showing such awful things.
Children could be watching.

They don’t know that by seeing the gruesome realities of the world
do we experience life completely, which is why we should be watching.
To know what’s happening would be the first step to being able to help.
This is what we should be teaching our children;
we shouldn’t be teaching them fear.

Because imagine being that woman—to have people see your body
sprawled out on the scorching hot asphalt.
To have them hear the dreadful things that had been done to you.
It makes them sick to the stomach.
And so they switch to a different channel.
Because they can.
Because your body in a strange position makes them sick to the stomach.

Imagine if the story makes you sick to the stomach.
Imagine if you were part of the story. If you were the boy, howling.
Imagine if you were her mother. Or her child. Her friend.
Imagine if it was you lying there on the ground.
Someone changes the channel.

- L. V.

L. V., i found this poem staring back at me from across a busy road

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literaryvein

7 months ago

- film still from Wuthering Heights (2011)
- "What goes on in my head and in my heart feels less like ghosts / and more like blood and bones when I write them down. / I feel more real, more human when I write." -L. V.

L. V., and this is how i bury you

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literaryvein

1 year ago

Poetic Surgery

I lay you down under the sun
where god can see you.

Someone hands me a scalpel
and I make the first incision—
right at the soft spot between
the third verse and the fourth.

You bleed. You open up like a flower
at the hands of a Summer child.
I have poetry in place of bandages
so I plaster the silence with free

verse because apart from being myself,
I’ve also grown tired of being locked up.
Years from now, they’ll finally find
a cure for our kind of sadness.

Until then, we’ll drink our pepper
mint tea and write lousy poetry.

- L. V.

L. V., i found this poem as the peppermint tea circled down the drain

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