Tag Archives: hashtags

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

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

Marina Tsvetaeva 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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Cotton Seeds in a Pod. Madikeri, Coorg.

Where does such tenderness come from?
These aren’t the first curls
I’ve wound around my finger—
I’ve kissed lips darker than yours.

The sky is washed and dark
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
Other eyes have known
and shifted away from my eyes.

But I’ve never heard words like this
in the night
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
with my head on your chest, rest.

Where does this tenderness come from?
And what will I do with it? Young
stranger, poet, wandering through town,
you and your eyelashes—longer than anyone’s.

~Marina Tsvetaeva (1916), Translated by Ilya Kaminsky

Leonard Cohen 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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Cape Town, South Africa.

Confined to sex, we pressed against
The limits of the sea:
I saw there were no oceans left
For scavengers like me.
I made it to the forward deck.
I blessed our remnant fleet –
And then consented to be wrecked,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

~Leonard Cohen

Warsan Shire 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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Photo Credit: Siddharth Choudhry, Singapore.

You’re a horse running alone,
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do, love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love

~ Warsan Shire

@reachnisha 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.

DUCKS
Ducks feeding, Stratford-upon-Avon

IN MEMORIAM

We are never playing this game again,
Especially because I always lose.
And this morning,
the wager is breakfast.After all these years it seems
That scissor still beats paper,
Well, at least my jazz hands look cooler.

I sulk, as you dribble syrup
Strategically over the pancakes,
So that they wink and smile
And wag their tongues
At my reluctantly seated presence.

But it’s the coffee you pour that does the trick –
Two sugars and just enough cream
To win me over,
And in my favourite cup no less,
Picked out from the two dozen jumble
With the assured certainty
That never quite disappears,
Between old lovers.

The first pang comes
When without my asking,
You unfailingly pick,
The tomatoes off my plate.
It’s what you always did for me,
Since my confession that summer –
Impassioned, in the way
Only a teenager’s can be,
That I absolutely despised them.

How many afternoons did we squander you think,
That same sultry July?
Kissing in reckless abandon,
Under the mango tree in the schoolyard
We loved so dearly?

At long last,
The appreciation
Of how miserable I’ve been –
Obliged as it were
All these in-between years
To eat my own tomatoes because you’ve been gone.

It leaves me suddenly breathless
Like the crashing storms
We could get so drunk on,
Their baffling intensity
Staining our summers green.

And right now,
More than washing up
I want to lie beside you,
On the grass that grows by the stream.
We’d feed the ducks
And give them funny names
While the sun melts away the winter
Of years of discontent.

~Nisha Ravi