Stefanie Kirby
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msstefaniekirby.bsky.social
Stefanie Kirby
@msstefaniekirby.bsky.social
3.1K followers 3.8K following 180 posts
Writer. Mom. Xeric gardener. OPENING (Glass Poetry, 2025). REMAINDER (Bull City Press, 2025). FRUITFUL (Driftwood Press, 2024). Poems in Best of the Net, West Branch, phoebe, Cincinnati Review, etc. More poems at https://linktr.ee/stefaniekirbypoetry
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msstefaniekirby.bsky.social
Stefanie Kirby @msstefaniekirby.bsky.social · Jun 24
It's here!! 🎉
bullcitypress.com Bull City Press @bullcitypress.com · Jun 24
🎉 #HappyPubDay to Stefanie Kirby with REMAINDER (Inch #64) available now --> buff.ly/WHXyMdi
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
notatawp.bsky.social
Join us next week for NAWP's incredible November reading with @victoriawrites.bsky.social, @taylorbyas.bsky.social, and
@toosiewatson.bsky.social!

Hit the RSVP link!
www.eventbrite.com/e/a-nawp-rea...
Promotional graphic with author photos that says: A NAWP Reading Victoria Buitron Taylor Byas Daniella Toosie-Watson Hosted by Jared Beloff November 17, 2025 7:00pm - 8:00pm EST
November 10, 2025 at 1:51 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
glasspoetry.bsky.social
Announcing our 2025 Monarch Queer Literary Awards nominations!!

@icarus-flies.bsky.social "Grief Is the Raven"

Olivia Lehman "Winter Solstice"

@gardnerdorton.bsky.social "Love Poem Featuring Ton 618"

Malik Thompson "*"

Keenan Teddy "Sonnet Unrequited"

CB Wilson "We Harvested, We Harvested"
2025 Monarch Queer Literary Awards Steven Sanchez "Grief Is the Raven" Olivia Lehman "Winter Solstice" Gardner Dorton "Love Poem Featuring Ton 618" Malik Thompson "*" Keenan Teddy "Sonnet Unrequited" CB Wilson "We Harvested, We Harvested"
November 10, 2025 at 4:11 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“I am singing sadly to the barn.” A poem by Matthew Zapruder.
SCARECROW Remember her strapped to the air, her grey dress flapping a little? The field mice ran beneath her feet learning new technologies. I don't scare anybody, she complained, smiling, a nest on her head. Which was how much I loved her, all through the harvest and dismantling. I am the morning dove who nests in the gutter. I am singing sadly to the barn.
November 10, 2025 at 1:38 AM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
caldeiragiselle.bsky.social
Georges Braque, Still Life with Fruits and Stringed Instrument.
Georges Braque's 1938 oil painting, titled "Still Life with Fruits and Stringed Instrument," is in the Cubist style. The work displays a complex arrangement on a table covered with a pink tablecloth with leaf patterns. The objects are fragmented and overlapping, including a stringed instrument (resembling a mandolin or guitar), a centerpiece with fruit (pears and lemons are recognizable), vases, and glasses. The background is highly patterned, with areas in aquamarine, black, red, and ochre, using zigzags and other geometric shapes to create rhythmic movement. Light is concentrated in the pale center of the composition.
November 10, 2025 at 2:37 AM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
neonpajamas.bsky.social
Shane Kowalski

@dieddisappointed.bsky.social
@futuretensebooks.bsky.social
SCAM LIKELY There’s never a bruise like childhood… The years go by like a single car driving down the road with its headlights off. All those calls and texts asking you if you’re you. No, sorry, haven’t been for a long time…
November 9, 2025 at 2:32 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
christinadaub.bsky.social
Fun poem by @kelliagodon.bsky.social
starting with the title and all the way through “your gurgling stanzas, your lyric sigh.” #poetry
Poem by Kelli Russell Agodon from her book, Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room, White Pine Press, 2010
October 30, 2025 at 9:14 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Charles Wright, with a word of warning
November is dark and doom-dangled, fitful bone light And suppuration, worn wrack In the trees, dog rot and dead leaves, watch where you're going . . .
November 8, 2025 at 4:58 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
neonpajamas.bsky.social
Releasing two books through @pizamapress.bsky.social in 2026

One is a surrealist semi-autobiographical ekphrastic fever dream

One is a meditation and reflection on the strange mundanity of life

Both are packed with prose poems
November 8, 2025 at 4:20 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
alinaetc.bsky.social
The perfect brushstrokes of this poem by Elizabeth Willis.
Self-portrait with Imaginary Brother after Willem de Kooning Eventually the "imaginary brother" becomes a wife or a lover, a daughter or a wife. A "Woman Sitting" (1943) is sitting in the middle of a war. The breast that is showing does not appear to be loved. It lives in a society of thieves: no hands. Even the pink lady isn't pink, she's a head full of teeth. Now it's 1948. Painters may not be trembling, but the world is. Turned over, the secretary is a piece of furniture, her paint running upward impossibly from the face. She'll do anything you say.
November 9, 2025 at 4:06 AM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
nycterosea.bsky.social
My very first time having poems in The Malahat Review!

Pictured here is "Desert Fauna," which features some horses and a rather oblique allegory. Not pictured is "Grape," which I wrote when I was thinking a lot about how I hate the way grapes are used on social media these days...
Desert Fauna Anybody stalking this dead end road wants something—it’s either your horses or you. Told me that before he left for good some five years past and I believed him. Abhor the gun but the pockets of my jeans never want for rocks. Morning cuts the sky open to show me a stranger. I stop twenty paces back to take stock. His chin is dropped on his folded arms resting atop my paddock gate. His back greets me, his gaze meets the animals’, who abandon their grazing only for a blink before returning. Their shining hides wink at us in the sunlight. My knuckles squeeze white against stone and I call out, Hello, though my meaning is elsewhere. We’re stock-still, quieter than the minute before a quick draw. My God, he says finally, eyes still caught by what’s before him. Aren’t they wonderful? I sidle to him slantwise, ‘til I can see him in profile. His cheeks, his leather boots, are cracking like this arid land, but his hands are too soft for rope. I ease my grip. I’m not afraid of dying, you understand, I’m just not made to be green-broke. This, however, is all right—him talking about the horses as if they don’t belong to me, don’t belong to anyone. Because they don’t—
November 5, 2025 at 5:43 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
glasspoetry.bsky.social
“Hope” is the thing with feathers By Emily Dickinson “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.
November 5, 2025 at 1:21 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
carriganak.bsky.social
Check out my poem "Ars Poetica: Lace" in @havehashad.com!
havehashad.com HAD @havehashad.com · 6d
wonderful new ars poetic up on the site today from Alex Carrigan!!

https://www.havehashad.com/3im1r
November 4, 2025 Ars Poetica: Lace Alex Carrigan After “Ars Poetica” by Ellene Glenn Moore And that’s when I found the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen tossed into the river outside my house: an entire milk crate full of lace scraps. I pulled it to shore with my boat hook and began to go through the pieces. Most of them had taken on the color of the river; muddy brown with a dark green line tracing along the scallop edges. I found one strand of lace that remained dry and white and held it up to the sky. A seagull snatched it from my hands before I could count the number of holes in it. It carried the lace with it as it flew towards the other side of the river. In that moment, I remembered what my grandmother said as she knitted lace for my first wedding veil: Make sure the pattern is readable.
November 5, 2025 at 12:29 AM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
a hazy darkness—yet the moon,

Denise Levertov, “Alchemy”
Deep night, deep woods, valley far below the steep thigh of the hill, the sky too a hazy darkness—yet the moon, small and high, discovers a wide stretch of river to be its mirror, steel brighter than its own fogmuffled radiance.
November 5, 2025 at 12:11 AM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
neonpajamas.bsky.social
Paul Cunningham

@p-cunning.bsky.social
@eldiagram.bsky.social
May 21, 2025 at 1:05 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
neonpajamas.bsky.social
Paul Cunningham

@p-cunning.bsky.social
@eldiagram.bsky.social
May 17, 2025 at 1:22 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
fiddlehd.bsky.social
Celebrate The Fiddlehead’s newest issue with a virtual launch!

Join us on Zoom for an evening of readings with Shelley Pacholok, winner of the 2025 Creative Nonfiction contest, and issue 305 contributors, A-E Best and Will Richter!

Nov. 19, 7pm AST

Email thefiddlehead@gmail.com for the Zoom link!
October 31, 2025 at 6:57 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
poetrydaily.bsky.social
Today's Featured Poem:

"The Bear" by @amiewhittemore.bsky.social from Nest of Matches published by @autumnhousepress.bsky.social

Read here:
poems.com/poem/the-bear/
The Bear
The bear came to me. I did not ask. I did not want.
poems.com
October 26, 2025 at 3:00 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
postcardlit.bsky.social
Still reading for issue 4. A little behind on submissions so bear with me as I catch up. Keep submitting! Maybe buy a copy of issue 2 or 3?
www.postcardlit.com
October 27, 2025 at 12:45 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Eva Heisler
The End of Part One She didn’t want to meet. She didn’t want to sail. She didn’t want to turn. She didn’t want to branch. She didn’t want to rip. She didn’t want stem, planks, inside a moth. She didn’t want to speak. She didn’t want to light the lamps. She didn’t want to see the albums. She didn’t want to undress. She didn’t want to dress. She didn’t want to loosen the sheet, and it was tight. It was blank, it was black, and it wound the room, the day, voice. She didn’t want to see. She didn’t want to sleep. She didn’t want to scrub the pines. She didn’t want a blanket. She didn’t want a shovel. She didn’t want to open the box. She didn’t want a comb, feather, step, sound, tent.
October 31, 2025 at 1:42 AM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
splitthisrock.bsky.social
1 WEEK LEFT TO REGISTER! SPREAD THE WORD!
Don't miss "I Am Here: Affirmation As Resistance" with the incredible Gabriel Ramirez, a virtual writing workshop where we can speak back to what has made us feel small, invisible & impossible. Tickets start at $30. Learn more: bit.ly/4q8DipU
#Poetry #Poets
I Am Here: Affirmation as Resistance: A Split This Rock Virtual Writing Workshop with Gabriel Ramirez
Not being who I am is unacceptable.- Nikky FinneyCaring for myself is not self-indulgence,it is self-preservation, and that is an act ofpolitical warfare. - Audre LordeA catalyst to choosing ourselves...
bit.ly
October 30, 2025 at 5:58 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Elizabeth Robinson
Shower The smallest ideas become perceptible so you wake up one morning with your hand filled with grains, with leaves of mint, or yarn. Go back to sleep. You would be wrapped up, all the way, in the progressive softness of the hope. Too much to scent, caught between the fingers, the blanket or shore. Suddenly it’s my sleep you’re permeating, weathered line. An idea that the sky is falling. It’s raining. And what that washes up to.
October 29, 2025 at 12:02 AM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
happy birthday Sylvia Plath 🎈
The swans are gone. Still the river Remembers how white they were. It strives after them with its lights. It finds their shapes in a cloud. What is that bird that cries With such sorrow in its voice? I am young as ever, it says. What is it I miss?
October 27, 2025 at 6:30 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
dapowell.bsky.social
"Poem" by Joe Brainard.
Poem Sometimes everything seems so oh, I don't know.
October 26, 2025 at 5:42 AM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
alinaetc.bsky.social
it’s cold
listen mother
and think of me
now

- Tristan Tzara turning to address his mother in Romania, in the poem titled "Circus"
October 27, 2025 at 6:22 PM
Reposted by Stefanie Kirby
roseknapp.bsky.social
Pressing Matters by Caroline Giles Banks

#poetry #haiku #senryu
October 29, 2025 at 3:32 AM