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Loose Nails
@loosenails.bsky.social
Think I’m probably just going to post some poetry and music that I love.
18 followers42 following25 posts
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LNloosenails.bsky.social

Can a poem know things that the poet does not?

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LNloosenails.bsky.social

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Violet_...

Violet Gibson - Wikipedia
Violet Gibson - Wikipedia

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LNloosenails.bsky.social

Yes.

OOobsofdeviance.bsky.social

Deep psychedelic Swedish free form improv jams, recorded 1965-67. #vinyl musikverket.se/capricerecor...

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LNloosenails.bsky.social

“are these your hands? would you like them back?” Yara Asmar and Majd Chidiac youtu.be/7gNPO8HLMdo?...

are these your hands? would you like them back? (feat. majd chidiac)
are these your hands? would you like them back? (feat. majd chidiac)

Provided to YouTube by DistroKidare these your hands? would you like them back? (feat. majd chidiac) · yara asmar · majd chidiacsynth waltzes and accordion l...

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LNloosenails.bsky.social

“Can it be a charm of hummingbirds, please. A congregation of plovers.”

RIromanaiorga.bsky.social

Grateful to Natalie Solmer and the Indianapolis Review for making room for this poem in their current issue. I'm delighted to share this space with Tina Barry Angelique Zobitz Marilyn McCabe Cameron Morse Robert Okaji and many others! theindianapolisreview.com/i-was-afraid...

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LNloosenails.bsky.social

“The Condition” by Nadra Mabrouk

THE CONDITION My Mother tells me that God says even if, even while, the world ends around you, earth tearing root by root, even while the horses stagger into holes, neighing into the darkness, filling their mouths to the throat, when the horn sounds off, Israfil balancing his clouded weight on a rock, his lips cracking and gold, even while you hear the ghosts leaving the spines, their hair longer than ever, breaths coming out in timed instruments, even while the waters seethe open, bodies rolling to the shore. If there is a seed in your palm, you must bend to the soil and plant it.
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LNloosenails.bsky.social

If I Said by Sally Rosen Kindred

If I Said to my mother That you were once a doll tucked in the arm of the crooked birch. That we nested lilacs in our lashes but in the morning we could not open our eyes. (Woke but the lids were closed. Woke, but the roof refused.) That you could fasten your song to this cradle-milk sky, that you could lie down to be named here, your bones ribbons, your bones a glass net. And your sorrow the bird in it, beating. And if I said you'd always loved me, that I was your mother, and you had never been mine-my lonely wren, you would believe, you would unclench your grief, let it slip from the silver tree. I say songs are a mercy. Our sleep delivers the leaves. That you are not sick anymore, not sorry-and (feathers, soft blooms) you remember me.
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LNloosenails.bsky.social

“Every symphony is a suicide postponed. True or false?” youtu.be/YzDlpXPF9Sk?...

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LNloosenails.bsky.social

This is a beautiful album youtube.com/playlist?lis...

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LNloosenails.bsky.social

The poet as Bodhisattva. Dear Reader by James Tate

Dear Reader I am trying to pry open your casket with this burning snowflake. I'll give up my sleep for you. This freezing sleet keeps coming down and I can barely see. If this trick works we can rub our hands together, maybe start a little fire with our idenification papers. I don't know but I keep working, working half hating you, half eaten by the moon.
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LN
Loose Nails
@loosenails.bsky.social
Think I’m probably just going to post some poetry and music that I love.
18 followers42 following25 posts
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