Satya Dash
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satyadash.bsky.social
Satya Dash
@satyadash.bsky.social
110 followers 130 following 45 posts
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Reposted by Satya Dash
gabriellebates.bsky.social
trying to force myself to share at least the occasional poem, now that I'm throwing new work against the walls. this one was published in Southern Indiana Review 🖤 I wrote it in a time when I had not really slept for many months and was going insane.
GABRIELLE BATES New Baroque Derangement I was conceived in a restless biome, a riot of wisteria. Unguarded. Bitch of blue. A woman pushed her tongue into my mouth and it was good weather. There were spirals, spirals at the heart as pure lasso—ice pure loss skipping liquid, straight to air I could and couldn't bare because I was and wasn't. Combing a lone shore there under the moonlit backwash of receding waves, all that grit in my gums and oceanscape's overlappings, I am telling you in that fading cyanic I saw your faces. In the sands. I saw. Every person I might have been or birthed I could not reach but I could see. A consciousness I'd once called mine clambering into a swan boat. And high above, and far around, the rope of air caught music's meat. I saw what seeing used to mean.
September 14, 2025 at 7:05 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
phdhurtbrain.bsky.social
Not sure any work of art haunts me like this one
Landscape with the fall of Icarus
September 12, 2025 at 12:00 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
sannawani.bsky.social
Poet Talk about Trees featuring @farahghafoor.bsky.social!

Tune in for talk about trees, snails, time and more. Available where you listen to podcasts: poettalk.buzzsprout.com/2362005/epis...
a yellow background with an orange tree; and then TREES and a few other phrases in dark green and black
September 12, 2025 at 5:38 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
kelliagodon.bsky.social
My gawd I love this poem:

"When you place a wet kiss on my nape while washing my back in the shower, I think of all good things and forget I am wounded. "

~ T. De Los Reyes @andhow.bsky.social
waxwingmag.org/items/issue3...
September 9, 2025 at 2:45 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
poetrysociety.org.uk
On 16 July, The Poetry Society was delighted to present the launch readings for the Summer 2025 issue of The Poetry Review, edited by Wayne Holloway-Smith, with guest readers Kaveh Akbar, Bonnie Hancell, Jacob Polley and Martha Sprackland.

In this one-poem extract, Martha Sprackland reads (...)
August 18, 2025 at 11:04 AM
Reposted by Satya Dash
readalittlepoem.bsky.social
Today’s poem is selected by Chen Chen (@chenchenwrites.bsky.social) as part of the 20th anniversary of Read A Little Poetry.

“It will all work out okay” appeared in High Lonesome by Allison Titus, published by Saturnalia Books, 2023. Shared here with deep gratitude.
August 3, 2025 at 2:01 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
1andrewcollard.bsky.social
My second book of poems, LO-FI CITADELS, has been accepted at Wayne State University Press and will be published in 2026. Very grateful and excited to share with you.

Here's a poem from the book, "Bus Stop Promenade," originally published a while back in @kenyonreview.bsky.social
July 22, 2025 at 3:28 PM
satyadash.bsky.social
A typical Bangalore July!
July 22, 2025 at 7:23 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
litbowl.bsky.social
From Franny Choi's book, The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On: bookshop.org/a/862/9780063240087

#poem #books #writing
July 19, 2025 at 6:10 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
chelsdingman.bsky.social
Lucky to have two new poems in the just-dropped Spring issue of @kenyonreview.bsky.social 🖤

I also have audio up on the website. You can log in & read the whole stellar issue (so many of my faves!) & hear each of us read here: kenyonreview.org
Many thx to the editors!
SYMPTOMS OF IMPOSSIBLE HISTORIES Suppose narrative untells us. The sentences prose imposes. The forced encounter in a simile. Just like my mother. Just like your father. The mickey of vodka hidden in your belt. A migration from within language: shadows, daughters, voices. How metaphor makes us foreign. Not only to the other, but to ourselves. To know and not know. All at once. How little of us silence might have disowned. How little known a river until it crawls out of a belly and slithers across the grass to press itself against the throats of the daffodils.
July 11, 2025 at 3:54 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
solace121.bsky.social
This poem by Carl Phillips. Like whoa.
June 24, 2025 at 7:11 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
aestallings.bsky.social
Tickled to be featured on the Best American Poetry blog with this poem: blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_ame...
A.E. Stallings: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]
______________________________________________________________________ Empathy My love, I’m grateful tonight Our listing bed isn’t a raft Precariously adrift As we dodge the coast guard light, And cla...
blog.bestamericanpoetry.com
June 23, 2025 at 5:23 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
joseolivarez.bsky.social
I’ve gotten a lot of great feedback on this post, so I’m sharing it again: How to Read Poetry like a Poet: open.substack.com/pub/joseoliv...
Read Like A Poet Vol. 1
Featuring Jack Gilbert's The Forgotten Dialect of The Heart
open.substack.com
May 21, 2025 at 5:57 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
hanvanderhart.bsky.social
I am so sorry to hear of Martha Silano’s passing. Celebrate poets while they are with us. Remember them after. Read them, always. ❤️
samrasnake.bsky.social Sam Rasnake @samrasnake.bsky.social · Apr 23
“Because why not? Why not take the smashed pinecone
of my life, render it in purple? Why not dream of baking
thirteen pies, six bumbleberry, seven sour cherry? I wouldn’t
press myself into a grief box, but I will confess I’m happiest
under a sleeping sky, love the darkness”
Martha Silano
#poetry
“Because why not? Why not take the smashed pinecone of my life, render it in purple? Why not dream of baking thirteen pies, six bumbleberry, seven sour cherry? I wouldn’t press myself into a grief box, but I will confess I’m happiest under a sleeping sky, love the darkness” Martha Silano #poetry
May 7, 2025 at 8:03 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
waynemillerpoet.bsky.social
Grateful for this review of THE END OF CHILDHOOD by brilliant Canadian writer, editor, and literary citizen @robmclennan.bsky.social!
Wayne Miller, The End of Childhood
AMERICAN DOMESTIC The drone was ours Slipping home Toward a distant strip of earth That was also America While the operator Star...
robmclennan.blogspot.com
April 30, 2025 at 2:21 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
dapowell.bsky.social
Gorgeous poem by Lily Brown in her new collection from
parlor press.
What Are Maps Thunder thuds out of plum clouds. The gate to the highest point I climb locks with a chain and two slots. One catches two loops in its claw. The other's a single blunt dent. I can open it if I concentrate. (A cow can't and that's the point.) I once absorbed a person so completely recollection dimmed to grades of light, mouths like cagey gates. General and particular rhymed to dream's interior. This morning a wasp climbed sticky onto a paintbrush and reached one leg through the air like a test. I didn't know if it was faded or frozen and nudged it to a navy book then out the open door, from which it went. Hard work has an end where it's not mer. I will not, for example, trail the leery fawn who admits her face to query, looks long, then runs. ---Lily Brown
April 28, 2025 at 3:56 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
susanlleary.bsky.social
Anthony Borruso 💙

from SPLICE (Trio House Press, winner of the 2024 Louise Bogan Award, forthcoming July 2025)

Day 27 - National Poetry Month

@triohousepress.bsky.social
A Hypochondriac Walks into Fourteen Lines Poundcake, earthquake, paranoiac zest, I feel the flaw within my chest, the moon is crumbling at its crest-Jesus Christ I'm a masochist, coughing river-brack and wood chips, the headache and thought itch of terminating consciousness. What's the over-under on my being being six feet lower? Why's this salamander got his tail wrapped round my tumors? Terminus to terminus, Tallahassee to Kalamazoo, my body's that Banksy that shreds itself; it hums a Morricone soundtrack facing off against the mind: aneurysm, melanoma, heart attack, on a toothpick I sample each savory demise.
April 27, 2025 at 6:04 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
toddedillard.bsky.social
here's a poem of mine published in @sixthfinch.bsky.social about playing Animal Crossing during the peak of the pandemic
One-Hundred Thousand Bells My daughter forgets her island game, like life, needs tending to. Every item she finds she gives a home--acorn barnacle, rainbow anemone, avalanches of pears and scarlet mums scattered across her digital earth. Moths, octopuses, the many crickets she captures--these go into aquariums and glass habitats, placed alongside spare campfires, stone tables, even an errant DJ station parked by a river blue as the heart of a pilot light. There’s so much stuff now the cartoon girl that’s meant to represent her has to move from beach to woods to home as if through a labyrinth. I warn her if she doesn’t want her island to become a mountain of junk she has to throw some things away. Instead, she begins digging holes, filling them with couches and spare t-shirts, record players, even a statue of Venus, patting the soil flat with her flimsy shovel, which leaves a scar on the ground that looks half urchin, half bullet wound. Where did my daughter learn what she buries will always belong to her? At night she visits each creature’s home and clicks on their nightlight. Then it’s back to the river to put on a lullaby for the fish.
April 26, 2025 at 3:22 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
toddedillard.bsky.social
whenever someone says writing efficiently means using the least amount of words possible remind them how we all say “jobs where you get to work with your hands” instead of “hand jobs”
April 25, 2025 at 12:30 AM
satyadash.bsky.social
Daphne Gottlieb.
April 26, 2025 at 12:16 AM
Reposted by Satya Dash
heatherchristle.bsky.social
There is a story I like to tell about Jericho Brown, because it demonstrates (I think) that his superstardom (which brings me GREAT joy) is rooted not just in his remarkable poetry, but his ways of being in the world, of attending to it.
Jericho Brown!
April 22, 2025 at 2:10 PM
satyadash.bsky.social
Heather Christle. 💫💫
@heatherchristle.bsky.social
April 25, 2025 at 6:04 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
hanvanderhart.bsky.social
Denise Levertov reminded me that Galway Kinnell worked in Louisiana as a civil rights activist…and that’s of course Kinnell on the cover of Vievee Francis’ incredible The Shared World.

nupress.northwestern.edu/978081014519...
The Shared World Vievee Francis POEMS Galway Kinnell, a white man in white shirt, blood splattering the front of his neck and shirt front, while a Black, woman, student activist (I believe) wipes the blood from his face. Oh, here we go, from front of book: Cover image: Surrounded by fellow demonstrators, Juniata College senior and student organizer Harriet Richardson (right) assists Juniata lecturer and poet-in-residence (and later Pulitzer Prize winner) Galway Kinnell (1927-2014), who had been hit with a state trooper's billy club, Montgomery, Alabama, March 16, 1965. Along with others from the college, the pair had traveled from Pennsylvania to participate in the Selma to Montgomery march led by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Photograph by Charles Moore / Getty Images.
April 18, 2025 at 3:08 PM
Reposted by Satya Dash
jessicacuello.bsky.social
I had a great discussion about the Diane Seuss poem "Self-Portrait with Sylvia Plath's Braid."

Shout-out to two other brilliant books: Sandra Simond's Assia and Heather Clark's Red Comet.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3Zb...
Walking Inside Poems Episode #18 – “Self-Portrait with Sylvia Plath’s Braid” (Diane Seuss) – 4/18/25
YouTube video by Walking Inside Poems (with John Krajicek)
www.youtube.com
April 18, 2025 at 1:53 PM
satyadash.bsky.social
💙🙏🏽💙
seagoatscreams.bsky.social SeaGoatScreamsPoetry(Ankh Spice) @seagoatscreams.bsky.social · Mar 12
~Satya Dash in the latest Prairie Schooner

(just... grace, how these line & couplet breaks look you dead in the eyes, smile, then fly away as a different bird)

#poetry
The Tussle Satya Dash The car drove the sun over the cliff. The altar fire burned my razor. The hair, vast and incessant, swaying over the sandstone balcony like a silk curtain. I was flung into my body. Most of the wigs didn't fit me. I scuttled without disguise, exposing the very fragility I tried to hide for so long but now was forced to flaunt. The sleeping pills brought about a difference of perspective. At your touch, my elbows came apart-a sign tenderness was in touching distance. Distance jumped miles, cattle passed like intense atmospheric paintings flickering in the car's windows. The man wasted your chance. The chance wasted your man. Through this waste, must I forever wade?
April 17, 2025 at 7:36 PM