Suzanne Gardinier Writes

#ThePoetryProject is a hashtag I run on Instagram matching photographs that I take, with poetry that I love or write myself. For more private poetry, follow the hashtag via @reachnisha on Instagram — trespassers welcome.

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Portrait. “Homecoming”. Madras, India.

Wasn’t that your cheek against mine last night,
Gin Streetlight when somebody loves you,
Impossible.

When you reach the broken paddock fence,
the sign will say,
Impossible.

The color God painted my eyes,
A cross between storm and ewerstream,
Impossible.

All your wrong lovers without certificates,
Stamped across their foreheads,
Impossible.

Dear Torch received your kind invitation,
Regret conflagration,
Impossible.

You must mean a phantom hand at her waist,
Your ache at her absence not mine,
Impossible.

A holy place in the emperor’s city,
A peach in a stone,
Impossible.

You the mask of a ram I the mask of a bull,
Horn chips Mischling Torn doors,
Impossible.

Dance without footprints dance with no name,
In a room with no lovers touching,
Impossible.

Your eyes one protecting your sleeping son’s dreaming,
One torchlit and trying to close,
Impossible.

Dear Lion here’s a gazelle,
Hold her in your teeth but no biting,
Yours Impossible.

~Suzanne Gardinier

Neruda Writes

#ThePoetryProject is a hashtag I run on Instagram matching photographs that I take, with poetry that I love or write myself. For more private poetry, follow the hashtag via @reachnisha on Instagram — trespassers welcome.

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Monsoon. Fort Cochin, Kerala.

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

~ Pablo Neruda

Sasha De-Buyl Pisco Writes

#ThePoetryProject is a hashtag I run on Instagram matching photographs that I take, with poetry that I love or write myself. For more private poetry, follow the hashtag via @reachnisha on Instagram — trespassers welcome.

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Seagull takes flight. Pangong Tso, Leh.

How it happened that bird woman became
fish woman is unknown yet. Among the
hypotheses a Latin transcription mistake,
from pennis (feathers) into pinnis (fins).’

Bird-woman didn’t know water,
had never tasted sea. Landlocked,
sky bound – no man would ever spy her in the
noonday wink of hunger and sun and think
mermaid. She came from air, from tree.

Her wings were freedom, her sky everything.
When she was struck down, she thought the sky
had rejected her, a lover grown bored and
her left forced to move on feet unused
to gait or step. Picking a direction,
she walked until she found shore.

Here, the blue fell downwards, and mirrored
up in confusion. Bird-woman saw two suns,
two sets of sky reflecting. The second seemed
colder and more solid; grounded.
When she was held up to her waist
cradled by this heavy sky, she found
she had no need for wings.

~Sasha De-Buyl Pisco

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