L. V., I Found This Poem Stuck Between My Therapist's Teeth

Detail of "Le chevreuil" ("The Deer")
Gustave Courbet, 1876

L. V., i found this poem stuck between my therapist's teeth

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More Posts from Literaryvein and Others

literaryvein

10 months ago

Sleeping Woman (Detail)
by: Oskar Kokoschka, 1917

you will become awfully tired of weeping, and so unfortunately,

L. V., i found this poem in its attempt to conquer the skies

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literaryvein

1 year ago

Tell me honestly: Wasn’t life easier when we were strangers? Wasn’t life easier before we discovered poetry?

L. V., i found this poem when a stranger asked me for directions

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literaryvein

8 months ago

[on the phone, at a rainy train station:]

I don’t want this heart—take it away, please.
Can I have another mind instead? No, not a brain. A mind, yes.
A mind. I just want more space for the memories.
Precisely.
There are people I don’t want to forget. Yes, even after they’ve forgotten me.
But there are places too—places I want to revisit without having to leave my bed.
Yes, even when I’m no longer welcome. But there are feelings too.
Like I want to remember what it felt like hearing my favourite song for the first time. Like I want to remember what it felt like diving in the ocean
long before I learned how to swim.
Like I want to remember the way you make me feel, always.
But without the side effects.
No, not the side effects! Like, nausea and fever;
coughing up blood and throwing up; like, this lonesome road
that’s replaced my spine over night, and this heart that now only knows to ache.
That’s all, thank you.

- L. V.

Saint-Lazare Station, Arrival of a Train (detail)
Claude Monet
1877

L. V., i found this poem backlit by moonlight

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literaryvein

11 months ago

- Il y en a toujours un autre (detail) by Marcus Stone, 1882
- "i was so nervous meeting you." -L. V.

- Il y en a toujours un autre (detail) by Marcus Stone, 1882
- "and i guess that’s when i knew." -L. V.

L. V., i found this poem when i couldn't look at you

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literaryvein

11 months ago

okay i just found THE blog

I don't know what this means. Someone tell me what this means.

EDIT:

Editing this to make it my pinned post. If you're new here, this is basically THE blog (as evidenced above). Welcome. I hope you enjoy picking apart the insides of my mind.

This space contains original writings by L. V. (+some experimental edits in between). Two (sometimes more) queued posts per day at 10am & 10pm US/Eastern time.

My Side Blog: where I post writing prompts & tips, post/reblog image prompts: 1 2 3, and share/reblog other art & literature I love.

This is also mine. (+ other side blogs that I won't mention because they're mostly inactive now)

My Photo: Artwork by Grace Cossington Smith My Header: Quote by Toni Morrison

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literaryvein

10 months ago

Detail of "Jeune homme à la fenêtre" ("Man at the Window")
Gustave Caillebotte, 1875

I was watching a film the other day. The boy confessed: I can’t stand the silence—I need to speak to you.

- L. V.

And it reminded me of the first time I fell in love. It wasn’t with a boy. It was with silence.

- L. V.

In a dream, the world shut its mouth forever and the backyard flowers began to bloom in colours we have yet to name.

- L. V.

We learned to make music another way—first with hands and feet. Later, with the way we breathe.

- L. V.

Isn’t it strange how even love could backfire? Because here I am years later and I couldn’t care less for silence anymore. I can’t stand it—speak to me.

- L. V.

L. V., i found this poem rereading a book you gave me years ago

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literaryvein

8 months ago

Detail of "Skull with Burning Cigarette"
Vincent van Gogh, 1885

She started her day before the sun even came up.

She told stories to children, and actually liked it.

October wasn’t herself today, and she actually quite liked it.

L. V., i found this poem as i spiralled back into old habits

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literaryvein

9 months ago

Detail of "Evening Landscape with Rising Moon" by Vincent van Gogh (Dutch, 1853-1890)

Strawberry Moon

On TV, a boy cries over the blood-soaked body of a 32-year-old woman.
The editors gave the footage a black and white filter
so that the only way we would be able to tell how deep the red goes
was by listening to the boy’s grief-stricken howl.

Someone changes the channel, complaining
that they shouldn’t be showing such awful things.
Children could be watching.

They don’t know that by seeing the gruesome realities of the world
do we experience life completely, which is why we should be watching.
To know what’s happening would be the first step to being able to help.
This is what we should be teaching our children;
we shouldn’t be teaching them fear.

Because imagine being that woman—to have people see your body
sprawled out on the scorching hot asphalt.
To have them hear the dreadful things that had been done to you.
It makes them sick to the stomach.
And so they switch to a different channel.
Because they can.
Because your body in a strange position makes them sick to the stomach.

Imagine if the story makes you sick to the stomach.
Imagine if you were part of the story. If you were the boy, howling.
Imagine if you were her mother. Or her child. Her friend.
Imagine if it was you lying there on the ground.
Someone changes the channel.

- L. V.

L. V., i found this poem staring back at me from across a busy road

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literaryvein

6 months ago

Landscape under a Stormy Sky (detail)
Vincent van Gogh, 1888

All I have are apologies for you at this point,

I want your rage—hand me your hurricanes.

L. V., i found this poem whilst we talked about van gogh with wine in our bloated bellies

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literaryvein

10 months ago

an open letter to the poet who left a bouquet of sonnets at my door
dear poet,
who is the "you" in your poems?
when did you meet?
where did you meet?
how did you meet?
& why does the "you" in your poems
hold so much light that i see you drowning in it

- L. V.

by Henri Fantin-Latour (French, 1836-1904)

& why does the "you" in your poems
punch black holes into your heart and in your lungs
that i see you are struggling to breathe
& oh wow there's so much blood
in your lungs
that i see you are coughing up
sunsets into your elbow

- L. V.

& i see you try to wipe it away
with your hands
but all you're doing is smearing
everything in red
& how does the "you" in your poems
hold so much light that you turn into a moth
& you are chasing the fire
& you know this won't end well
but you are chasing the sun
you keep chasing the end, dear poet

- L. V.

L. V., writing in the dark (pt. 6: because i don't know what to do with all this light)

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