Nathan Spoon šŸ§  šŸ³ļøā€šŸŒˆ

@nathanpspoon.bsky.social

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audhd & queer. poetry & art. bloomer disguised as a doomer. https://press.syr.edu/supressbooks/8662/importance-of-being-feeble-minded-the/ https://nathanspoon.com/

A Horn in the Distance I am transforming myself into a terror you said as fog rolled over and between the hills. A small rabbit hopped sideways to eat a shoot or two before heading home. I didn't know rabbits had homes the longish grass said. Of course they do you said while wiping your hands on your shirt. You were and are terrible enough to say such a thing : especially to longish grass also being rolled over by fog. Especially since it had to be night first before this morning had hope of breaking. Why you say such things is a mystery even as you rest your head against my shoulder as I write these words. I want to be a terror too someday I say softly to everyone around us.
A photo of The Importance of Being Feeble-Minded.
a colorful, expressive drawing of a face
seven colorful and expressive handmade dolls
What The Universe Is, featuring poets Nathan Spoon and Vivek Narayanan Tuesday, November 18 at 7:30pm ET Register at: bit.ly/WTUI_Nov2025
an abstract meta-expressionist painting
an abstract meta-expressionist painting
an abstract meta-expressionist painting
two smiling faces in downtown LA
Welcome Back While not dreaming what am I doing. Getting lost among the leaves it seems. But why even. Why not let the leaves get lost among me as I lose myself among them enjoying the real effervescence of mutual mutability. One night an owl called out. What is it saying I asked myself as one does in situations like this. As if I could or had a right to know. People we forget remember us all the time. The bench empty under the nearly leafless tree is probably lonely. I could ask it but then I would be left holding one too many things. There are days anybody might feel like rolling up their heart and drawing what goes with it into a shell.
cover of my forthcoming poetry collection - the importance of being feeble-minded
an abstract meta-expressionist painting
The Winner We were arguing to find out what our real feelings could be. I placed large olives on every other fingertip. You felt the preciousness of the air around your second pair of ears. It was spring until it wasnā€™t. I never knew people like you could do the things you do you said. Then a knife opened in the heart of your mind. The winner will have to die first I said. Then you win you said. Thank you I said. I always wanted to be first at something.
a photo of the books *everything comes next* by naomi shihab nye and *can you hear, bird?* by john ashbery
photo of a manatee
Kiddo What was it that slid through the field of my hand? A mountain. I will say it was a mountain, although it is no longer here for any other to see. It is elsewhere and doubtless sitting like a toad whose voraciousness desires to be appeased. At a key moment any hand may grow warm and as sustaining as a grove of pawpaw or sassafras trees. I will negotiate moving forward from here, forward into the thickness that buries all but the most willful homing. The seat is leather-like and brown and the back is mint green. What kind of sense does that make? Who knows? But at least people needing to sit have somewhere to do that. There are always turns as entirely unexpected as this. Often a bright pair of shoelaces appears as if out of nowhere.
Notice, by Robert Lowell The resident doctor said, ā€œWe are not deep in ideas, imagination or enthusiasm - how can we help you?ā€ I asked, ā€œThese days of only poems and depression - what can I do with them? Will they help me to notice what I cannot bear to look at?ā€ The doctor is forgotten now like a friendā€™s wifeā€™s maiden-name. I am free to ride elbow to elbow on the rush-hour train and copy on the back of a letter, as if alone: ā€œWhen the trees close branches and redden, their winter skeletons are hard to find -ā€ to know after long rest and twenty miles of outlying city that the much-heralded spring is here, and say, ā€œIs this what you would call a blossom?ā€ Then home - I can walk it blindfold. But we must notice - we are designed for the moment.
Acrylic and ink on canvas
ink on paper brush drawing
empathy is my favorite sin
To January I open my heart to what is here. A sky. Two kinds of air and sunlight. An entire world. All the endless things I love and the things I disagree with that somehow remain of interest. I open my heart like you open your own. Still, I would rather not put thought into how I remember hidden lakes. We were sleeping when the fog swallowed the woods behind our house. Now that we are awake, it is as if nothing at all happened.
Welcome Back While not dreaming what am I doing. Getting lost among the leaves it seems. But why even. Why not let the leaves get lost among me as I lose myself among them enjoying the real effervescence of mutual mutability. One night an owl called out. What is it saying I asked myself as one does in situations like this. As if I could or had a right to know. People we forget remember us all the time. The bench empty under the nearly leafless tree is probably lonely. I could ask it but then I would be left holding one too many things. There are days anybody might feel like rolling up their heart and drawing what goes with it into a shell.
A poem by William Stafford Friends How far friends are! They forget you, most days. They have to, I know; but still, itā€™s lonely just being far and a friend. I put my hand outā€”this chair, this tableā€” So near: touch, thatā€™s how to live. Call up a friend? All right, but the phone itself is what loves you, warm on your ear, on your hand. Or, you lift a pen to writeā€”itā€™s not that far person but this familiar pen that comforts. Near things: Friend, hereā€™s my hand.
A poem by Naomi Shihab Nye Hidden If you place a fern under a stone the next day it will be nearly invisible as if the stone has swallowed it. If you tuck the name of a loved one under your tongue too long without speaking it it becomes blood sigh the little sucked-in breath of air hiding everywhere beneath your words. No one sees the fuel that feeds you.
A copy of Say Hello to Metamodernism! by Greg Dember
Wild is the Wind by Carl Phillips
image description requested