Laura Minor, poets<poems 😘 she/her 🤘💪 #writer #poetry

@lauralminor.bsky.social

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2024 Silver Medal Florida Book Awards, Poetry 🥈 Book 2: Bright Life, Animal Heart, winner of the 2023 Minds on Fire Open Book Prize, out now!, conduit.org Book 1: Flowers as Mind Control, winner of The 2020 John Ciardi Prize, at uapress.com *no DMs pls*

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Let me love you. I love the taste of your thick blood. I keep it for a long time in my toothless mouth. Its ardour burns my throat. I love your sweat. I love to caress your armpits Dripping with ecstasy. Let me love you. Let me lick your closed eyes Let me pierce them with my sharp tongue and fill their hollow with my triumphing saliva Let me blind you. -Joyce Mansour
Dior has a product referencing Baudelaire’s Flowers of Evil. It is a bill wallet / card holder.
the_sharpener_poetry ••• New Year's Day-everything is in blossom! I feel about average. By Kobayashi Issa (tr. from Japanese by Robert Hass)
Jean Valentine Door in the Mountain Never ran this hard through the valley never ate so many stars I was carrying a dead deer tied on to my neck and shoulders deer legs hanging in front of me heavy on my chest People are not wanting to let me in Door in the mountain let me in
Eric Wareheim of Tim & Eric comedy. He is gesturing thoughtfully at nothing and the word “poems” is next to him.
THIS MORNING We were the rain last night. our smell still lingers in the flower beds. The white hills rise like crumpled moons; a swarm of insects lights a lawn's dull face. We go to see ourselves in puddles, you and I, clear fragments of the flood. - Bert Meyers
You are perfect for me because you're psychic no one else could understand me the way you do and I say Drink Me I say it to you silently but it calls forth in me the water for you the water you asked for By Rebecca Wolff
ETIOLOGY Cruelty made me. Cruelty and the sweet smelling earth, /and the wet scent of bay. The heave in the rumps /of horses galloping. Heaven forbid that my body not /perish with the rest. I have smelled the rotten wood /after rain and watched maggots writhe on /dead animals. I have lifted the dead owl while it /was still warm. Heaven forbid that I should be saved.
Drunken Memories Of Anne Sexton The first and last time I met my ex-lover Anne Sexton was at a protest poetry reading against some anti-constitutional war in Asia when some academic son of a bitch, to test her reputation as a drunk, gave her a beer glass full of wine after our reading. She drank it all down while staring me full in the face and then said "I don't care what you think, you know," as if I was her ex-what, husband, lover, what? And just as I was just about to say I loved her, I was, what, was, interrupted by my beautiful enemy Galway Kinnell, who said to her "Just as I was told, your eyes, you have one blue, one green" and there they were, the two beautiful poets, staring at each others' beautiful eyes as I drank the lees of her wine.
or emptied some dull opiate to the drains."
Sean Singer Bert Meyers Theme: Sunrise / Daybreak For the full Sharpener set, subscribe at link in bio DAYBREAK Birds drip from the trees. The moon's a little goat over there on the hill; dawn, as blue as her milk, fills the sky's tin pail. The air's so cold a gas station glitters in an ice-cube. The freeway hums like a pipe when the water's on. Streetlights turn off their dew. The sun climbs down from a roof, stops by a house and strikes its long match on a wall, takes out a ring of brass keys and opens every door.
Richard Brautigan I Am Summoned by a Door I am summoned by a door but forgotten by the knock and left standing here alone in a long silent hall, like a marble intestine, that knows my name.
I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me. -DYLAN THOMAS
DONT FORGET TO LOOK AROUNO AND APPRECIATE ALLTHE THINGS GOING RIGHT
Just a picture of Willie Nelson smiling in sunglasses.
I have a hard-on for you the size of Florida. -Robin Williams, The Fisher King
And somewhere in the darkness, the gambler he broke even Kenny Rogers
"Why Are Your Poems so Dark?" by Linda Pastan Isn't the moon dark too, most of the time? And doesn't the white page seem unfinished without the dark stain of alphabets? When God demanded light, he didn't banish darkness. Instead he invented ebony and crows and that small mole on your left cheekbone. Or did you mean to ask "Why are you sad so often?" Ask the moon. Ask what it has witnessed. *Source: Poetry Magazine
Omotara James [I'm purging and creating ... the numb dumb foot of my birth is circling the room.]-LM Moose / Leaving Philadelphia Cruising up the Vermont mountain the evening I, at the centre of my breaking, do not die, midnight drives my small sedan almost vertical. Atop the icy steep dark, a feeling louder than intuition and more dense than the surrounding fog, gathers. I brake-stretch my heel into the pedal, a chill sits me upright in my seat as the wheels skid to stop. I am at the peak of something greater than my gasp and then nothing. Cold silence. I see two pairs of legs. Heavenwards: belly. A sneeze is all it would take for me, an unabsorbed droplet, to slide past the meniscus of this life into the next. This is it. The feeling you wonder about the whole time. I feel only the numb dumb foot of my birth trembling hard against the metal and the thick pads of my mother's mother's mother's mother's mother's mother's fingers around my neck, steadying me so I do not cross. Before me, always, an entrance
Do you have any advice for writers/poets working on their craft? The one thing I would suggest to any writer is to read nothing on the internet, avoid all manifestations of the poetry world which has absolutely nothing to do with art. Don't try to be a diplomat, don't be a sell-out to English departments, resist the institutionalization of the art with its attendant frauds and self-interests. Read a lot; do not go to readings. Remember that poetry has been around forever and all you really want to do is be a conduit for it. Also know that poetry in this country has always been the province of the feeble-minded so now is not that unusual. Don't worry about being a poet, just concentrate of writing poems. Don't let social speech turn you into a hashtag ninnie. It all comes through the writing, the doing of it, not the talking about it or receiving vapid sticker stars from hood ornaments. The blood's always fake but you got to try to make the bleeding real. Dean Young
THE CONSPIRACY You send me your poems, I'll send you mine. Things tend to awaken even through random communication. Let us suddenly proclaim spring. And jeer at the others, all the others. I will send a picture too if you will send me one of you. - Robert Creeley
Gayl Jones uses a loose version of a blues strophe structure her poem "Deep Song": The blues calling my name. She is singing a deep song. She is singing a deep song. I am human. He calls me crazy. He says, "You must be crazy." I say, "Yes, I'm crazy." He sits with his knees apart. His fly is broken. She is singing a deep song. He smiles. She is singing a deep song. "Yes, I'm crazy. I care about you. I care.
#6 education i am learning the braille of your breath your word your voice leaping up from the page into my mouth -Andrés Montoya
I Wage My Life Against Your Body I cannot keep you with me. You must live apart, live far off and die in order to trespass, as the moon is filled with its own story. As music dignifies and represents what we are and want to be. As thistles stand with their blue translations of the sun after the hillside poppies outside Mithymna, windblown over the sea, have gone, have died impossibly of their own blood-red tenderness, and disappeared. The song, the human song of you, is seed impregnating the cypress by the grave. The day focuses the light for a moment just before it ends, just before the sun goes down and evening as always tries to make everything seem all right. -Linda. Gregg
Ode to the Maggot Yusef Komunyakaa Brother of the blowfly & godhead, you work magic Over battlefields, In slabs of bad pork & flophouses. Yes, you Go to the root of all things. You are sound & mathematical. Jesus Christ, you're merciless With the truth. Ontological & lustrous, You cast spells on beggars & kings Behind the stone door of Caesar's tomb Or split trench in a field of ragweed. No decree or creed can outlaw you As you take every living thing apart. Little Master of earth, no one gets to heaven Without going through you first.
How does one, after something like divorce, keep your muscle to trust, so to speak, healthy and strong? Ratajkowski: The first thing that came to mind is this idea from Audre Lorde about female instinct: For each of us women, there is a dark place within where hidden and growing our true spirit rises, "beautiful and tough as chestnut / stanchion against your nightmare of weakness" and of impotence. I believe in the female instinct and have witnessed its silencing. My anxieties and unhappiness and rage and all the things that I experienced in a domestic partnership, I now understand that they existed because I had been ignoring my instincts.
A picture of poet. Robert Hayden, on a new Us stamp.
Robert Creeley The Warning For love—I would split open your head and put a candle in behind the eyes. Love is dead in us if we forget the virtues of an amulet and quick surprise.
MINOR’s new book at www.conduit.org Gacked On Anger Amyl and the Sniffers
Witch, Hag, Crone You who were my only homeland, where am I going to look for you? Perhaps in this poem that I am writing. —Alejandra Pizarnik Like death, that smoke-filled jar that sits on the forest floor— home is sky, dirt, poetry. I had to try and imagine a place: Verge of green golden strobe Corridor tap of hair and wood Peaceful sorrow-fleshed globs. Whoever drew these borders can't see a shore yet- and what stricken bet against the charcoal unyielding in its violet strum of denim? Transient as evolution's haunches— women always know it, those who move in concert, wizen, holy against the crowned bog.
Jonas Mekas “For an artist, to be normal is a disaster.”
Fanny Howe(R.I.P., poet) looking into the distance. Her weathered face is facing the light. A light gray scarf to match the smooth salt & pepper bangs.
Cover of the spring/summer issue of FENCE magazine. #42 Art with little black Mary Jane’s and Bobby socks that look like whipped cream. They are lit like candles.
WORDS & VISIONS FOR MINDS ON FIRE conDuIT magazine “CHAOS RIPPle AffecT CHANCE CIRCUMSTANCE” #34
Picture of the cover of Nazim Hikmet’s collected poems. He’s giving face. Handsome. Brooding.
That woman.. deserves her revenge. And we deserve to die. -from Thelma and Louise, RIP Michael Madsen
The famous stoop cover of Salad Days but with my head photoshopped on every member of Minor Threat. 🤣🥳 a lil bday gift today
A picture of one of my favorite humans, Alap Momin of dälek and many more.
Night Was Done Mikhail Kuzmin Night was done. We rose and after Washing, dressing, -kissed with laughter, - After all, the sweet night knows. Lilac breakfast cups were clinking While we sat like brothers drinking Tea,- and kept our dominoes. And our dominoes smiled greeting, And our eyes avoided meeting With our dumb lips' secrecy. "Faust" we sang, we played, denying Night's strange memories, strangely dying, As though night's twain were not we.
i am learning the braille of your breath your word your voice Leaping up from the page into my mouth -Andrés Montoya
5:21 ₫ The Eternal Three There are two men in the world who always cross my path, one is the man I love, the other man loves me. One man visits each night in a dream that lives in my shadowed soul, the other waits outside my door, I will never let him in. One man brought a rush of spring that all too soon blew over, the other offered his whole life and came away with nothing. One man surges to my blood's song of passion pure and free, the other blends with the everyday that smothers all hopes and dreams. All women are caught between these two, in love and truly loved - but perhaps once every hundred years, the two become the same. Aa （：
THE MONSTER DOE And all the birds were in my garden and all the beasts were in my garden and all of them sang the bitterness of my love and the doe sang more wondrous than all others and the song of the doe was the song of my love and the voice of the beasts was quiet and the birds stopped screeching and the doe climbed onto the roof of my house and would sing to me the song of my love but in each beast there's a monster just as in each bird there is something strange just as a monster exists in each person and the monster doe walked around the garden when the birds bowed their heads when doe sang and the beasts dozed when doe sang and I was as if I wasn't when the doe sang at that soft moment she struck my gate. And all the beasts fled and the birds flew off and the doe fell from the roof and broke her head and I ran away and in the garden of my love shut in a monster gorilla black and evil as oblivion. -Yona Wallace
THEY BLAME IMMIGRANTS 三 SO YOU WON'T BLAME BILLIONAIRES
Here's a sample routine inspired from Bronson's own daily workouts: Morning Routine 100+ Push-ups (broken into sets) 100+ Sit-ups 100+ Bodyweight Squats Pull-ups or chin-ups (as many as possible) 10-15 minutes of shadowboxing or jump rope
"You are not allowed to give up." —Alexei Navalny
Liz A. Johnson •.. X 1d • 8: Thrilled to share the cover of Swirl & Vortex: Collected Poems of Larry Levis, forthcoming February 2026 from Graywolf Press. As an Associate Editor working with Editor David St. John, it's been a joy to bring this project into the world. Thank you to Jeff Shotts for your profound support of this important book! LARRY LEVIS SWIRL & VORTEX COLLECTED POEMS
A chicken mixing in with FDT’s hair piece
Buy my book, “Bright Life/Animal Heart at Conduit.org. 🤙💪🫶
Howard Sochurek - Robert Frost standing in a field in Herefordshire with his hand over his face, 1957. (The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images)
WHERE IT BEGINS The corruption begins with the eyes, the page, the hunger. It hangs on the first hook of the first comma. The mouth shuts & opens. Newspapers are there & nursery rhymes. Readers, lovers dangle like Cassius, Brutus from Satan's teeth. The corruption begins with the mouth, the tongue, the wanting. The first poem in the world is I want to eat. The breast is the screen of the dream; no hungry poem can ever be content with two. The corruption begins with breasts, the cunt, the navel. It begins with wanting love from strangers. - Erica Jong
Praise spring, the thaw, and all. Our eighth annual Marystina Santiestevan First Book Prize is open and ready for submissions. The nation needs poetry more than ever. Let's give it to them. We've been blessed with some excellent manuscripts and a number of them have gone on to win awards after publication. See below. If you have a manuscript bursting with possibility and you'd like to share those words with other human beings, we hope you'll send your manuscript our way. Prize includes publication, 20 copies, $1,500, and the warm glow of satisfaction. For further details please visit our website or our Submittable page. Deadline: July 7, 2025
Stanley Kunitz said: "The poet's first obligation is survival. No bolder challenge confronts the modern artist than to stay healthy in a sick world."