Ada Limón - Blog Posts

I’m thinking about people and trees and how I wish I could be silent more, be more tree than anything else, less clumsy and loud, less crow, more cool white pine, and how it’s hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.

Ada Limón ~mowing~ from Bright Dead Things

I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.

Ada Limón, The Hurting Kind

The true and serious beauty  of trees, how it seemed insane that they should offer this to us, how unworthy we were, bewildered how soon we were nearly weeping at their trunks as they tossed down petal after petal, and we tried to remember how it felt to receive and notice the receiving

Ada Limón, Hooky

What good is accuracy amidst the perpetual scattering that unspools the world.

Ada Limón, It’s The Season I Often Mistake

How much more drama can one body take? I wake up in the morning and relinquish my dreams. I go to bed with my beloved. I am delirious with my tenderness. Once, I was brave, but I have grown so weary of danger. I am soundlessness amid the constant sounds of war.

Ada Limón, “I Have Wanted Clarity in Light of My Lack of Light”

And I began to learn the names of trees. I like to call things as they are. Before, the only thing I was interested in was love, how it grips you, how it terrifies you, how it annihilates and resuscitates you. I didn't know then that it wasn't even love I was interested in but my own suffering. I thought suffering kept things interesting. How funny that I called it love and the whole time it was pain.

Ada Limón, Calling Things What They Are

Years later, back from Mexico or South America, he'd admit he was tired of history, of always discovering the ruin by ruining it,

Ada Limón, Cyrus & The Snakes

And of course there was music, though it was me and my incessant remembering.

Ada Limón, Banished Wonders

I want them to go on kissing, without fear. I want to watch them and not feel so abandoned by hands. Come home. Everything is begging you.

Ada Limón, It Begins With The Trees

I take the soil in

my clean fingers and to say

I weep is untrue, weep is too

musical a word. I heave

into the soil. You cannot die.

I just came to this life

again, alive in my silent way.

- Ada Limón, Invasive

There is a solitude in this world

I cannot pierce. I would die for it.

- Ada Limón, Drowning Creek

Sometimes, there seems to be a halfway point between where you've been and everywhere else, and we were there.

Ada Limón, Oh Please, Let It Be Lightning

what I have done is risked everything for that hour, that hour in the black night, where one flashing light looks like love,

Ada Limón, Glow

and I never knew survival was like that. If you live, you look back and beg for it again, the hazardous bliss before you know what you would miss.

Ada Limón, Before

How imagining death can make it easier 

to live and I agree and say, It’s called die

before you die.

- Ada Limón, The Long Ride

Every moon will be a moon of surrender

Ada Limón, The Noisiness of Sleep

You're the muscle / I cut from the bone and still the bone / remembers, still it wants (so much it wants)

Ada Limón, In A Mexican Restaurant I Recall How Much You Upset Me

I was suddenly some safer form of fire.

Ada Limón, What Remains Grows Ravenous

and how it's hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.

Ada Limón, Mowing

"If we could light up the room with pain, we’d be such a glorious fire."

Ada Limon, Bright Dead Things

Just Me - prose by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Merril is hosting Prosery (144 words) with an invitation to take the line “I have no skill for flight or wings to skim the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself.” from the poem ‘The Magnificent Frigate Bird’ by Ada Limon. dVerse Poets – Prosery – Ada Limon Photo: goalcast.com “We live in secret cities and we travel unmapped roads” Alberto Rios Just MeI am not bark or fibre, I am…

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transcript: hands to my dreary dreams.

i have been shedding skins since last August. consider me an onion, your favourite vegetable. don’t put me in water. i need to shed your tears.// the dreams are dreary like cold milk or uncooked soup. the tepid air in the kitchen, under the sheets disgorges a burnt out fire, never a homely warmth. but in this one bedroom kitchen apartment, they heap incompleteness yet they are consumed like your favourite soup.// i want you to reach into my throat, past the lips that have never been swayed. reach out to the words i hoard, my secret stash, the ones that even eyes fail to convey.// reach out to me and i will meet you halfway in my sleep. all i do now is dream. the wishful thinking is not about staying still but moving quietly in my sleep. and letting the grass strike my face as i bend my limbs to mould into the tire. i am reaching out to every six year-old who played with me but i have replaced my body with a tall child.// i want to stand still, drive a knife to make myself two. a daughter, now let me be two cells too. mitosis: i want to get doubled, not divided into halves like my father.// untangle my earphones. are you watering my plants? the sun will incinerate their phantom vibrants for even clouds deceive when salt of the earth doesn’t hit the mark.// i have buried my grief in my mother’s lap. now, she has ceased to exist. meet me halfway in her shawl. i will wrap my fingers around yours. and in time, my windows will crawl back to our home, their edges engraved with her shawl.

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