L. V., I Found This Poem On My Last Day As A Child

L. V., i found this poem on my last day as a child

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More Posts from Literaryvein and Others

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8 months ago

[on the phone, at a rainy train station:]

I don’t want this heart—take it away, please.
Can I have another mind instead? No, not a brain. A mind, yes.
A mind. I just want more space for the memories.
Precisely.
There are people I don’t want to forget. Yes, even after they’ve forgotten me.
But there are places too—places I want to revisit without having to leave my bed.
Yes, even when I’m no longer welcome. But there are feelings too.
Like I want to remember what it felt like hearing my favourite song for the first time. Like I want to remember what it felt like diving in the ocean
long before I learned how to swim.
Like I want to remember the way you make me feel, always.
But without the side effects.
No, not the side effects! Like, nausea and fever;
coughing up blood and throwing up; like, this lonesome road
that’s replaced my spine over night, and this heart that now only knows to ache.
That’s all, thank you.

- L. V.

Saint-Lazare Station, Arrival of a Train (detail)
Claude Monet
1877

L. V., i found this poem backlit by moonlight

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literaryvein

1 year ago

"A Black Bird With Snow Covered Red Hills" (Detail)
by Georgia O'Keeffe, 1946

if i were a bird, i'd probably never fly over oceans

i wouldn't trust my wings enough. because if i do

i'd probably just be imagining myself spiralling down like Icarus the whole time.

L. V., i found this poem stuck between your teeth

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literaryvein

9 months ago

Detail of "Louise Loved to Climb to the Summit on One of the Barren Hills Flanking the River, and Stand There While the Wind Blew" by N.C. Wyeth (1907)

L. V., I Found This Poem Lost At Sea, Bloated With Caffeine

L. V., i found this poem lost at sea, bloated with caffeine

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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

8 months ago

Detail of "Girl and the Moon" (1939) by Karl Pärsimägi

Here we are again: In the fetal position, curled up in poetry’s warm embrace, trying to put back together the two halves of our fractured hearts.

Along the way, we swapped a broken piece or two by accident. And so, here we are now, trying

to go about our lives with Frankenstein hearts, wondering why it hurts to breathe when we’re far apart.

L. V., i found this poem in a local paper's lost-and-found section

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literaryvein

11 months ago

You have the most beautifully unique posts. The essence of the word "haunting."

Oh <3

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literaryvein

11 months ago

Vincent van Gogh, Detail of "Starry Night Over the Rhone" (1888)

They say we were made of the exact same things that stars are made of.

One day, you’ll be responsible for an explosion potent enough to create a thousand and sixteen universes.

In each one, you’ll hold my name on your lips
like the kind of prayer you pray when you know you’re about to die.

L. V., i found this poem in the middle of a prayer to a god who wasn't listening

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6 months ago

Details of "Portrait of Edna Barger of Connecticut" by Jules Joseph Lefebvre (French, 1836–1911)

A Sonnet for You

If I could, I would compose sonnets for you.

You told me you love poetry, now I’m a poet.
I’ll write you a world of odes and ballads;
I’ll leave a bouquet of haiku on your doorstep.

If I could, I would compose sonnets for you.

Tell me all your fears. I want to know about
everything that’s ever caused you pain. I want
to write them all down on a piece of paper.

Then I’ll fold it once, twice, thrice until it can
no longer be folded. I want to make your fears
small enough that I can hold them in my hand.

I’ll take them far away from you, so that you
won’t ever have to be afraid anymore. I swear
nothing will hurt you again—myself included.

If I could, I would compose sonnets for you.

- L. V.

L. V., i found this poem on the wall when the paint started to peel off

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literaryvein

1 year ago

"Autumn" by Henri Fantin-Latour (French, 1836-1904)

What
is there
to be feared
of the dead when
every day the living
devours the living?
Meanwhile, the dead
does nothing but rest;
mouths shut, arms
crossed. And who
else is easier to
blame than
the quiet
ones?

- L. V.

L. V., i found this poem on the headstone of a 9-year-old boy

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literaryvein

10 months ago

I can’t do poetry, my words won’t write, if you could help me, that would be quite alright :)

As you can see, my poetry is shit.

"Poetry at its best can do you a lot of harm." —Sylvia Plath

"Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You’ve got to go so far so fast in such a small space; you’ve got to burn away all the peripherals." —Sylvia Plath

Are you certain you still want to write poetry, dear stranger?

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