"dorothea" poems - Hello Poetry

121 to 140 of 3251 Poets «5678»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by Michael Fried There are no poems by this poet on our website. Julia de Burgos There are no poems by this poet on our website. Keith Waldrop (b. 1932) Shipwreck in Haven, Part Four “Majesty” Susan Hahn Anthem Alice Lyons Developers The Boom and After the Boom Walt Whitman (1819–1892) When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking Kazim Ali (b. 1971) Ramadan Speech Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882) Aftermath Hymn to the Night Sharon Olds (b. 1942) I Could Not Tell Chamber Thicket Billy Collins (b. 1941) Silence Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty, I Pause To Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles Corina Copp There are no poems by this poet on our website. Dorothea Grossman (1937–2012) I have to tell you For Allen Ginsberg Bridget Lowe There are no poems by this poet on our website. Diane Burns There are no poems by this poet on our website. Beth Brant There are no poems by this poet on our website. Terrance Hayes (b. 1971) Stick Elegy Cocktails with Orpheus Ann Taylor (1782–1866) The Baby's Dance The Cut Chrystos There are no poems by this poet on our website. Amit Majmudar (b. 1979) The Miscarriage Instructions to an Artisan Linda Rodriguez There are no poems by this poet on our website. «5678»

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Mar 13, 2014

Mar 13, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC

I made up two things, People — or lovers’ rings. One writes the lines, The other paints the signs. So let me share how they feel, Let me present them as if they were real. Dorothea or Niki — the dreamer in me. Doesn’t know which she is anymore. She’s the version I write in my poetry. Me as someone to adore. She speaks in stanzas, dreams in rhyme, Wishes for a love to last past time. And then there is Poppy Piume, She’s a lot like my real world friend. But in this poetic arc that isn’t her doom. Here — we are the a story with no end. She answers in dreams, if not in the day, A voice I imagine when I drift away. In my imagination there is no goodbye, But in sad reality she doesn’t even reply. So I write, as she paints, and I try not to cry, And I pretend our silence is just a lullaby.

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Aug 2, 2025

Aug 2, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC

DorotheaDaisy

Just a lullaby

I made up two things, People — or lovers’ rings. One writes the lines, The other paints the signs. So let me share how they feel, Let me present them as if they were real. Dorothea or Niki — the dreamer in me. Doesn’t know which she is anymore. She’s the version I write in my poetry. Me as someone to adore. She speaks in stanzas, dreams in rhyme, Wishes for a love to last past time. And then there is Poppy Piume, She’s a lot like my real world friend. But in this poetic arc that isn’t her doom. Here — we are the a story with no end. She answers in dreams, if not in the day, A voice I imagine when I drift away. In my imagination there is no goodbye, But in sad reality she doesn’t even reply. So I write, as she paints, and I try not to cry, And I pretend our silence is just a lullaby.

22

"I don’t want to be beautiful with you I want to be an ugly, wretched, bleeding thing Pouring out on the windmills I want to be the locked tiger they can’t lock up Until it murders and then rages through the fields Of wild grasses I want to be so wild they can’t lock me up" — Dorothea Lasky, from “You are beautiful,” Thunderbird

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Oct 25, 2015

Oct 25, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC

proseandroses

...

"I don’t want to be beautiful with you I want to be an ugly, wretched, bleeding thing Pouring out on the windmills I want to be the locked tiger they can’t lock up Until it murders and then rages through the fields Of wild grasses I want to be so wild they can’t lock me up" — Dorothea Lasky, from “You are beautiful,” Thunderbird

8

i tried, but you no longer want to. with sunshine and smiles, i wish that you find warmth in all that you do; a home you can always run to, even if it's no longer with me — i still wish you think of me.

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Mar 24, 2024

Mar 24, 2024 at 12:40 PM UTC

ultra_markey

dorothea

i tried, but you no longer want to. with sunshine and smiles, i wish that you find warmth in all that you do; a home you can always run to, even if it's no longer with me — i still wish you think of me.

5

I was born backwards. I was raised in a place with no name but I can still find it on a map. The first words I wrote as a child were of Dorothea's funeral procession and the brown linoleum on her kitchen floor. Now I can't seem to remember her hands. She grew up slow, sifting the dirt with her hands. Time moved against her so gently. Dorothea wasn't scared of the wind. Dorothea died two months before her 90th birthday. I shut my eyes and smell the rain from her front porch. I close my eyes to feel the open windows of my childhood. I remember buying ice cream on the first day of Spring at the cafe close by. Why do we run from what we know? I want to find all of the years I misplaced under my fingernails. I want to see Dorothea standing in the kitchen. I want to see my mother happy. Childhoods lay dormant as death but I have faith that they find us, eventually - face down in the debt we owe, dark, dim, hungry for summer. I believe in the reincarnation of Dorothea because I have found myself again in her ghost. I found the South embedded in the spine and scripture of poetry, back porches, pink houses, love on an acre of bones. I stay up late to write myself into the arms of an existence like the one of Dorothea.

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Apr 8, 2017

Apr 8, 2017 at 11:03 PM UTC

ashley-moor

Dorothea Fisher (1916-2006)

I was born backwards. I was raised in a place with no name but I can still find it on a map. The first words I wrote as a child were of Dorothea's funeral procession and the brown linoleum on her kitchen floor. Now I can't seem to remember her hands. She grew up slow, sifting the dirt with her hands. Time moved against her so gently. Dorothea wasn't scared of the wind. Dorothea died two months before her 90th birthday. I shut my eyes and smell the rain from her front porch. I close my eyes to feel the open windows of my childhood. I remember buying ice cream on the first day of Spring at the cafe close by. Why do we run from what we know? I want to find all of the years I misplaced under my fingernails. I want to see Dorothea standing in the kitchen. I want to see my mother happy. Childhoods lay dormant as death but I have faith that they find us, eventually - face down in the debt we owe, dark, dim, hungry for summer. I believe in the reincarnation of Dorothea because I have found myself again in her ghost. I found the South embedded in the spine and scripture of poetry, back porches, pink houses, love on an acre of bones. I stay up late to write myself into the arms of an existence like the one of Dorothea.

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