lisa wiseman photography


This is spectacular jaw-dropping poetry mastery. NSFW just so you know.

"Dear Mrs. Thompson" by Danez Smith (Rustbelt 2014)


In that period
I didn’t have milk on my cereal
And I didn’t have cereal

My wheels were turning slowly
In the other direction

I’d come flying
Down Route 177 into spring’s fast panting
With the windows rolled up

I could say it in twang
As good as not
My voice cracking beneath me
I ain’t never been there

I knew the salty lips of desire

And the lips, too
Of the space rape punctured into
My body

This morning
When I soaped behind my ears
I uprooted that spring
With all of its bounty

Still clinging to my hair


A Pythonic Lament By Mike Widner


The circumstances


def bemoan():


our_lives_must = [‘end’]

the_suffering = [True]        # Read as “the suff’ring”

she = ‘loves you’

love = ‘a string of memories’

alone = bemoan

alas = alone


The lament


for poetry in the_suffering:


for variables in our_lives_must:


if None and 1 or 1 and None:


if love.split() or she.replace(‘you’, ”):



        the_suffering.escape() and love.admit()


        for one_day in our_lives_must:



"They keep telling me seeing things that aren’t technically there
is called ‘disturbed cognitive functioning.’ I call it
'having a superpower.'”

Neil Hilborn is luminous.

When I say I am crying what I really mean
is that I want to cry but can’t. Instead
of dying, the jellyfish simply ceases
to move.

This is perfect. just perfect. Thank you Neil Hilborn for this brilliant piece of writing and diction.


Neil Hilborn - “Mating Habits of the North American Hipster”

"Now she is taking her Macbook, and his Macbook, and her other Macbook, and her book on Macbooks, and arranging them in a circle. The male deems this an acceptable mating habitat, and amidst the Apple products, he mounts her—indifferently!"

The only poem to receive a perfect score at Rustbelt.

(via neilhilborn)

I was dead, then alive.
Weeping, then laughing.
The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like and evening star.
— Rumi
Love is so short. Forgetting is so long.
— Pablo Neruda

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.


A while back I was lucky enough to photograph the exceptional Kay Ryan for Newsweek when she became the United States poet laureate for the 2008-2010 term. Meeting her was a luminous moment in my life both professionally personally (I’ve always been a closeted poetry lover/writer). Just last week Kay was selected to receive the Pulitzer for her work The Best of It: New and Selected Poems which has received rave reviews. She is so very deserving and her poetry is perfectly sparse, exacting and beautiful. Below is one of my favorites and you can read more of her work here:

Home to Roost

The chickens
are circling and
blotting out the
day. The sun is
bright, but the
chickens are in
the way. Yes,
the sky is dark
with chickens,
dense with them.
They turn and
then they turn
again. These
are the chickens
you let loose
one at a time
and small—
various breeds.
Now they have
come home
to roost—all
the same kind
at the same speed.


The Kiss

She pressed her lips to mind.
⎯a typo

How many years I must have yearned
for someone’s lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.

She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.

Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she’s missed.
How had I ever settled for less?

I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greek’s ear,
speaking sense. It’s the Good,

defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. We married as soon as we could.