Loose Nails
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loosenails.bsky.social
Loose Nails
@loosenails.bsky.social
28 followers 69 following 35 posts
Think I’m probably just going to post some poetry and music that I love.
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loosenails.bsky.social
Beginning of November by Franz Wright
Beginning of November by Franz Wright The light is winter light. You've already felt it before you can open your eyes, and now it's too late to prepare yourself for this gray originless sorrow that's filling the room. It's not winter. The light is. The light is winter light, and you're alone. At last you get up: and suddenly notice you're holding your body without the heart to curse its lonely life, it's suffering from cold and from the winter light that fills the room like fear. And all at once you hug it tight, the way you might hug somebody you hate, if he came to you in tears.
November 30, 2024 at 8:53 AM
loosenails.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.
February 28, 2024 at 3:48 AM
loosenails.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.
February 26, 2024 at 8:45 PM
loosenails.bsky.social
Lovely, reminded me of this one by Tracy K. Smith
THE WEATHER IN SPACE Is God being or pure force? The wind Or what commands it? When our lives slow And we can hold all that we love, it sprawls In our laps like a gangly doll. When the storm Kicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasing After all we're certain to lose, so alive- Faces radiant with panic.
February 26, 2024 at 5:21 AM
loosenails.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.
December 20, 2023 at 7:40 PM