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4.28 AVERAGE
4.28 AVERAGE
dark
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
reflective
A lovely collection of poems from the current United State Poet Laureate, who also happens to live in Lexington, KY.
"I will never be a mother.
That's all. That's the whole thought.
I could say it returns to me, watching the horses.
Which is true.
But I could also say that it came to me
as the swallows circled us over and over,
something about that myth of their tail,
how generosity is punished by the gods.
But isn't that going too far? I saw a mare
with her foal, and then many mares
with many foals, and I thought, simply:
I will never be a mother."
"Seems like a good place for a close-eyed
thing, forever close-eyed, under a green plant
in the ground, under the feast up above. Between
the ground and the feast is where I live now.
Before I bury him, I snap a photo and beg
my brother and my husband to witness this
nearly clear body. Once it has been witnessed
and buried, I go about my day, which isn't
ordinary, exactly, because nothing is ordinary
now even when it is ordinary. Now something's
breaking always on the skyline, falling over
and over against the ground, sometimes
unnoticed, sometimes covered up like sorrow,
sometimes buried without even a song."
That's all. That's the whole thought.
I could say it returns to me, watching the horses.
Which is true.
But I could also say that it came to me
as the swallows circled us over and over,
something about that myth of their tail,
how generosity is punished by the gods.
But isn't that going too far? I saw a mare
with her foal, and then many mares
with many foals, and I thought, simply:
I will never be a mother."
"Seems like a good place for a close-eyed
thing, forever close-eyed, under a green plant
in the ground, under the feast up above. Between
the ground and the feast is where I live now.
Before I bury him, I snap a photo and beg
my brother and my husband to witness this
nearly clear body. Once it has been witnessed
and buried, I go about my day, which isn't
ordinary, exactly, because nothing is ordinary
now even when it is ordinary. Now something's
breaking always on the skyline, falling over
and over against the ground, sometimes
unnoticed, sometimes covered up like sorrow,
sometimes buried without even a song."
"I will never be a mother.
That's all. That's the whole thought.
I could say it returns to me, watching the horses.
Which is true.
But I could also say that it came to me
as the swallows circled us over and over,
something about that myth of their tail,
how generosity is punished by the gods.
But isn't that going too far? I saw a mare
with her foal, and then many mares
with many foals, and I thought, simply:
I will never be a mother."
"Seems like a good place for a close-eyed
thing, forever close-eyed, under a green plant
in the ground, under the feast up above. Between
the ground and the feast is where I live now.
Before I bury him, I snap a photo and beg
my brother and my husband to witness this
nearly clear body. Once it has been witnessed
and buried, I go about my day, which isn't
ordinary, exactly, because nothing is ordinary
now even when it is ordinary. Now something's
breaking always on the skyline, falling over
and over against the ground, sometimes
unnoticed, sometimes covered up like sorrow,
sometimes buried without even a song."
That's all. That's the whole thought.
I could say it returns to me, watching the horses.
Which is true.
But I could also say that it came to me
as the swallows circled us over and over,
something about that myth of their tail,
how generosity is punished by the gods.
But isn't that going too far? I saw a mare
with her foal, and then many mares
with many foals, and I thought, simply:
I will never be a mother."
"Seems like a good place for a close-eyed
thing, forever close-eyed, under a green plant
in the ground, under the feast up above. Between
the ground and the feast is where I live now.
Before I bury him, I snap a photo and beg
my brother and my husband to witness this
nearly clear body. Once it has been witnessed
and buried, I go about my day, which isn't
ordinary, exactly, because nothing is ordinary
now even when it is ordinary. Now something's
breaking always on the skyline, falling over
and over against the ground, sometimes
unnoticed, sometimes covered up like sorrow,
sometimes buried without even a song."
I am so in love with Ada Limón’s poetry ❤️. To see more about my thoughts on her poetry, check out my review on the first book of poetry I read from Limón, Bright Dead Things.
Some of my favorites from The Hurting Kind are “Glimpse,” “Give Me This,” “Open Water,” “It’s the Season I Often Mistake,” and “Salvage.”
Some of my favorites from The Hurting Kind are “Glimpse,” “Give Me This,” “Open Water,” “It’s the Season I Often Mistake,” and “Salvage.”
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
emotional
hopeful
sad
medium-paced
I feel like to me all poetry either means nothing, or it is a perfect 5 stars. There is no middle ground. This one was definitely easily the 5 star kind, I want to read every poem again immediately.
3.5 stars. Some gems in here, but collection feels a bit haphazardly curated at times. Curious to see if I’ll feel more for Bright Dead Things.