Tom Snarsky
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tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Tom Snarsky
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
5.7K followers 4.8K following 3.5K posts
He collected things, each of a holy intention in isolation, but pagan in the variety of his choice.
—William Gaddis

📚 @anothernewcalligraphy.com, @ornithopterpress.bsky.social, @animalheartpress.bsky.social, @brokensleepbooks.bsky.social
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tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 14d
might be biting off more than I can chew here but I started one of these today to share some writing, mostly about poems but maybe also some other stuff (philosophy, math, music, fiction, etc.)! there’s a little intro post now and the first “real” post goes out within the hour :)
[A picture of a possum with an open book] Pier’s End by Tom Snarsky Rear and subscribe at piersend.substack.com
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Albert York
A painting by Albert York of several striking red flowers, perhaps carnations, in a vase. The vase is tightly framed, so there is very little room on any side beyond the redness of the flowers. The brushwork is visible such that the longer the eye lingers on a particular flower or leaf or stem or other place in the painting, the more it develops a topology, a personality, a voice.
November 14, 2025 at 4:11 AM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Emmanuel Hocquard, tr. Norma Cole
REMEMBER the ruins the dry grass the sun at three o’clock fatigue & the house of the tragic poet
November 13, 2025 at 7:53 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
havehashad.com
today's our final pub from Snarsky's #smallpoemsunday call, with TWO small poems from Waniya Aks E Noor!

here's the first one. click through for #2!

https://www.havehashad.com/jhjwr
The Night I Stole a Shooting Star A shooting star tore through Lahore’s smoggy horizon. You covered your eyes, to save your superstitious soul. I looked at it in your stead— pilfered your superstition with my charred hands, ceded the burning wish to you.
November 13, 2025 at 4:41 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
sad minds think alike,

Mary Ruefle
Go Verbatim I live in the figurative world where nothing exists not even a chair except the one I am sitting on as I walk le boulevard when Francie comes up and pulls it out from under me. You live in a fantasy world! she exclaims upon examining it. Et tu, Francine, I say, what is your mind made of? Disappearing soap or a candle that won’t blow out? And when I had her weeping I said Francie sit down, teach me how to say sad minds think alike, you know, the repetitious way.
November 13, 2025 at 3:17 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Robert Lax
some or der some or der some cha os some cha os
November 13, 2025 at 4:07 AM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
jeffreycrunk.bsky.social
How else to experience the next embrace
November 12, 2025 at 7:58 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
nikkimwalls.bsky.social
to read
November 12, 2025 at 7:42 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Joy Harjo
I release you I release you I release you I release you
November 12, 2025 at 7:53 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
havehashad.com
our series of tinies, from Tom Snarsky's #smallpoemsunday call are getting close to wrapping up... but not before this wonderful beauty from Diana Cao!

https://www.havehashad.com/9zyon
November 12, 2025 Insomnia Diana Cao Refuse the day. In the night, a jewel balloon will hang doubled in the snow, an echo like anger curled in the mind, like a peeled thing without eyes, troubled, finite, and proud. Like the living. Now light rushes in from the window, flooding the day before you.
November 12, 2025 at 5:24 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Gillian McCain
Touch I’m a girl, there aren’t many of us left. Time to take the bullet by the hole. Certain designs rely on not being seen. I never denied I was just an assemblage of staves. Collapsing around us. This means not taking our rooms so seriously. We can’t see the wallpaper (pink scotties) or a misprint in the proof. Sometimes skin has to do all the talking. Recto, verso. But can you even enter them, speeding through the story? Once upon a time a golf tee punctured our water-bed. I thought I was going to live forever, immoral. I thought a lot of things, the court artist had trouble with my nose. Elongated, normal. A little lower.
November 12, 2025 at 2:54 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Lorine Niedecker
And what you liked or did — no matter once the moon dipped down and fish rose from under
November 12, 2025 at 4:11 AM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
“thin tunnels of light.” Peter Everwine, from a water-stained copy of Keeping the Night
Distance The light pulling away from trees, the trees speaking in shadows to whatever listens . . . Something as common as water turns away from our faces and leaves. The stars rise out of the hills —old kings and animals marching in their thin tunnels of light. Once more I find myself standing as on a dark pier, holding an enormous rope of silence.
November 11, 2025 at 9:17 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
living/have loved will love

Wanda Coleman
A&W —after Louis Zukofsky we spark lights inside one another living/have loved will love no one knows the truth about love. not all love is good (then that ain’t it, some say, obsession greed indulgence lust all better words) perhaps it is an unexpected stranger washing away apprehension with rapt tongue startling beasts from slumber who roar their hunger to the tireless stars, those tiny eyes gathering visions like fishermen casting for fish seaside whatever we’ve recorded one of the other wonder is there’s still so learnable much wherever we put our words is our poem
November 11, 2025 at 5:04 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
havehashad.com
today's small prose poem from Maureen Thorson is a marvel, but that first sentence — "It’s nearly Christmas." — just about gave me a panic attack.

https://www.havehashad.com/fm8m7
November 11, 2025 Song Maureen Thorson It’s nearly Christmas. The bar’s half empty, which also means half full. Even the strangers know each other, the way people do when the righteous are in bed. An older man in a beret sits up front, with an amp and a guitar, and it’s too cold and late for irony. Suddenly, Hotel California. Everyone takes it up, a doxology in two dozen voices. What’s religion but everyone knowing the words? Afterwards, the bartender in cat-eye glasses laughs, says, “You guys bring out the worst in me, which is awesome.” The night fogs like breath on a mirror when we disperse.
November 11, 2025 at 4:42 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
maureenthorson.bsky.social
Many thanks to @tomsnarsky.bsky.social for selecting this little bit of Xmas mystery for publication in HAD!
November 11, 2025 at 4:42 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Alice Notley
TO IMPRESS YOU All alone, eating winter strawberries dipped in dry sherry, & reading SUPER JOE: THE JOE NAMATH STORY
November 11, 2025 at 4:34 AM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Small poem~
Today I feel like an old movie ticket left in death’s jacket, a rain check because the battery in the captioning device died We pulled up the pallet and the mouse minnowed away, hiding again under a plastic bag from 1991 Do you think the moon is ever like this isn’t worth it Hush I’m blanching one pea for the fish
November 11, 2025 at 12:42 AM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
joepositive.wtf
love this
tomsnarsky.bsky.social Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 3d
And you tremble no longer,

Barbara Guest
Safe flights To no longer like the taste of whisky This is saying also no to you who are A goldfinch in the breeze, To no longer wish winter to have explanations To lace your shoes in the snow With no need to remember, To no longer pull the two blankets Over your shoulders, to no longer feel the cold, To no longer pretend in the flower There is a secret, or in the earth a tomb, And no longer water on stone hurting the ear, Making those five noises of thunder And you tremble no longer, To no longer travel over mountains, Over small farms No longer the weather changing and the atmosphere Causing delicate breaks where the nerves confuse, To no longer have your name shouted And your birthmark again described, To no longer fear where the rapids break A miniature rock under your canoe, To no longer repeat the mirror is water, The house is a burden to the weak cyclone, You are under a tent where promises perform And the ring you grasp as an aerialist Glides, no longer.
November 10, 2025 at 5:58 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
And you tremble no longer,

Barbara Guest
Safe flights To no longer like the taste of whisky This is saying also no to you who are A goldfinch in the breeze, To no longer wish winter to have explanations To lace your shoes in the snow With no need to remember, To no longer pull the two blankets Over your shoulders, to no longer feel the cold, To no longer pretend in the flower There is a secret, or in the earth a tomb, And no longer water on stone hurting the ear, Making those five noises of thunder And you tremble no longer, To no longer travel over mountains, Over small farms No longer the weather changing and the atmosphere Causing delicate breaks where the nerves confuse, To no longer have your name shouted And your birthmark again described, To no longer fear where the rapids break A miniature rock under your canoe, To no longer repeat the mirror is water, The house is a burden to the weak cyclone, You are under a tent where promises perform And the ring you grasp as an aerialist Glides, no longer.
November 10, 2025 at 5:17 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
havehashad.com
another perfect little wonder of a micro, today from Katy Luxem!

https://www.havehashad.com/d2w78
November 10, 2025 Changing the Calendar Katy Luxem Every box is open snow in an untouched field. Horses in the barn cannot even see the fences.
November 10, 2025 at 4:08 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Rumi, tr. Barks
This longing you express is the return message. The grief you cry out from draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection.
November 10, 2025 at 3:34 AM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
sarahbc.bsky.social
trick question bc all of my poems are love poems

happy birthday, Kristi! 🎉

#smallpoemsunday
Advice Nailed to the trunk of a roadside tree A hand-painted sign: “follow me”
November 9, 2025 at 10:47 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
adrianf.bsky.social
in case the evening crowd missed it - thanks @tomsnarsky.bsky.social (and on #smallpoemsunday to boot!)

www.havehashad.com/hadposts/our...
Two Poems by Adrian Dallas Frandle
Our Record to & with & for M— Affixed to our file, a note in red: The patients are writers This, then
www.havehashad.com
November 9, 2025 at 9:23 PM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Joe Wenderoth
Moon River what is true is what seems the most to repeat location without mercy the blank bark of old animals the house the way the snow has not shifted the few songs that seem again to have stayed
November 9, 2025 at 8:56 PM