Sonnateers 365

E, A, and C are dapper poetical compatriots. This blog is the result of two years of poetical adventure and a challenge to write a poem for each day.

Jun 29

someone to come home again [revised]

Days are getting so
much shorter. I promised you I’d write
you a poem tomorrow, but
what if

all I can think about is
the novelty of goodbye’s brittleness
and bitterness, the colors of
dried leaves as they scuttle
across the ground and are gone overnight,
now rolling, now drifting,
blow, blow, blustering, blowing

away, undaunted
in the great frantic frenzy of the future’s breathless heaving
wintercheekflushed excitement—

and then
it’s you
or I who
is alone
staring at the unchalked sidewalk,
waiting for

Apr 12

(A) Hey, guys! So like a million years ago, I wrote two poems entitled “Melody for Springtime,” and I recently wrote a third one! This one is more spoken-word, and I performed it for my phone because poems over the phone are the coolest. Since the first two Melodies debuted on this blog, I figured it would only be fitting to post the third one.

Apr 3

Apr 1

"Abortion is Genocide" on Campus, Today (1/30)


above your brightred-
-backpack. Grinning you
are dwarfed in a swarm
of student-

-protest. Studied
protest. You, wearing your
smile, an excuse and explanation
for accused genocide. Smiling sun-beam
among a dust-cloud of
locusts. Tottering,


(C) is doing a thirty-day poetry bonanza for NatPoeMo! Follow him!

Also, (E) is doing beauitful poems for Lent! Follow her!

People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.

A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master…

Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love (via observando)

(via blisseua)

Nov 5

C-Sestina for Arachne

Set like clockwork toys to run,
we made a mess of weather-beaten footsteps
whose interlocking paths wove
two terrible tarnished tapestries.
You were always rushing somewhere to
get something somehow more important

than threads were once the most “important”.
We used to be threaded. Used to run
and rove with cries erupting from our porcelain lips. To
collapse in fields was heavenly. To count the footsteps
of your other lovers. Those traceless former tapestries
always gripped me with a tight-bound jealousy. Weave 

me into something worthwhile. Weave
a shard of jewelry, there. Between us. How important
that you should be a goddess-taunting tapestry?
A braggart with the talent to back it. Haven’t spiders always run
at the sight of you? Haven’t monstrous footsteps
echoed away into forgiving darkness because you told them to?

Tell me again how you used to
swoon at the sight of silk. And I think you must be woven
out of the very gold you weave. I swoon at the sound of your footsteps.
How they pad tenderly down the corridors. Each. Beat. Im-por-tant.
Because it brings you closer. Athena urges you to run,
yet resist, unless it’s to my arms. I am torn tapestry. 

Travesty of travesties when she tugs your tapestries
off the wall. The goddess in you alive enough to
bend you into submission. Now your loom’s running
frightful images into our silk. Each stitch you weave
inflames her. You always missed what was most important.
Never missed the silk in my retreating footsteps. 

Now become a spider that shies away from me. My giants’ footsteps
could break your titanium tapestry
with one light step. How power corrupts! I never wished to be so important.
Now our clocks are overworked, their work gone, too.
Will you weave
us a meager ending to this tale? Or at least run 

out the time of our tapestries? At least run,
sprint, struggle, with your few remaining footsteps. Weave
us into sky-arching giants. The greedy gods will flee because you told them to.

Jun 27
Refrigerator Magnet poetry, part 3. (A)

Refrigerator Magnet poetry, part 3. (A)

Refrigerator Magnet poetry, continued.

Refrigerator Magnet poetry, continued.

Refrigerator Magnet Poetry, yo. (A)

Refrigerator Magnet Poetry, yo. (A)

Feb 14

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky

e.e. cummings, “[love is more thicker than forget]

Feb 13


Funny that the man whose name sprouted
"platonic" has such a golden ideal of love.

I hear his words caterwauling against my skull
whenever my heart skips a beat
you see we were made with
four arms
four legs
one head and two faces
our hearts beating in codependent unison
we were immortal in our convalescent coalition
until Jove heft his bolts and cleft us in twain
had us sewn up without our other halves
until we were
just dandelion seeds
on the wind, blown, scattered, strewn, in our pain

So when my eyes alight on your eyes
and I know that they are squinched with a smile
and a thought of our redolent reminiscences
I think I see a resemblance there
to my own soul
or should I say our soul?

And I know that we are not quite
magnetic enough to be two halves
of an ecstatic whole
two continental plates drifting together and not apart
but without those distinctive interlocking landmasses
like 1:10000 scale puzzle pieces wrinkled by charging seas
but you darling
(today alight with a laugh meant
not for me but falling upon my ears
in delight regardless)
remind me for a few stolen moments
of the same capricious kisses
that must drift from
the lips (across vast
unspecified distances)

of the other half
of my soul

Feb 1

A #15 - blanking out

blanking out under blankets

in the broken night with jagged edges

i am remembering the last drops of your

emotions as you bid me

farewell? good morning? i dont know. there is a faint

sadness to all of this and i am terrified of it

existing and knowing about it sometimes i would choose

blissiful ignorance over the impossibility of real feeling

and that it what is rending me to pieces come

back so i can hold you properly this time when i know

that is something i have to do i am awake and remembering

and it hurts so i sleep and can we cling to the bed together

our boat in the buffetting night and we can maybe hold

each other too for a while at least until we feel less desperate

and at least until we feel less anxious about the

encroaching of age and the uncertainty of time—

or perhaps the certainty as it plods so steadily on

and we want moments to be irregular up and down up

and we don’t want the surety that we will fade away

that we will slowly slowly blank out

Jan 29

—Is where space ends called death or infinity?
Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions

A mere eyelid’s distance between you and me.

It took us a long time to discover the number zero.

John’s brother is afraid to go outside.
He claims he knows
the meaning of zero.

I want to kiss you.

A mathematician once told me you can add infinity
to infinity.

There is a zero vector, which starts and ends
at the same place, its force
and movement impossible
to record with
rays or maps or words.
It intersects yet runs parallel
with all others.

A young man I know
wants me to prove
the zero vector exists.
I tell him I can’t,
but nothing in my world
makes sense without it.

Amy Uyematsu, The Meaning of Zero:A Love Poem  (via yesyes)

(via grammatolatry)

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