curated poems with ai-generated illustrations by jujube monster
I go down to the edge of the sea. How everything shines in the morning light! The cusp of the whelk, the broken cupboard of the clam, the opened, blue mussels, moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred— and nothing at all whole or shut,…
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time has acquired a stillness, the hour breathes over a wine jug, it’s late, the last blows have been traded, a clinch and a hang on the ropes before the bell—I give the world to anyone who wants it, let them be happy: — Gottfried…
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O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our soul’s as free Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home! — George Gordon Byron (1788–1824)
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Cat, enough of your greedy whining and your small pink bumhole. Off my face! You’re the life principle, more or less, so get going on a little optimism around here. Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring. — Margaret Atwood
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When I think how far the onion has traveled just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise all small forgotten miracles, crackly paper peeling on the drainboard, pearly layers in smooth agreement, the way the knife enters onion and onion falls apart…
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寒鴉終於拼湊成 夜﹕黑色地圖 我回來了—歸程 總是比迷途長 長於一生 — 北岛 “黑色地图” in the end, cold crows piece together the night: a black map I’ve come home—the way back longer than the wrong road long as a life — Bei Dao (translated by Eliot Weinberger)
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Everyone in the room is cheering. This is what you do for a painting you love! We climb up on one another’s shoulders, wave pom-poms that match the palette. — Rebecca Morgan Frank
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A green level of lily leaves Roofs the pond’s chamber and paves The flies’ furious arena: study These, the two minds of this lady. — Ted Hughes
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Into warm evenings on a shadowy road The children ventured, and once more they knew Remarkable hours, when points of darkness glowed With fresh surprise as myriad fireflies drew Each to imagine stars, but stars at hand … — Thomas Carper
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It nuzzles oblivion, confuses itself with mud. A creature of familiar taste … — Claudia Emerson
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One face looks out from all his canvases, One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans: We found her hidden just behind those screens, That mirror gave back all her loveliness. — Christina Rossetti
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Don’t be polite. Bite in. Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. — Eve Merriam
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Over the river and through the wood, To have first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, “Ting-a-ling-ding!” Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! — Lydia Maria Child
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Just the passion of painters and poets trying to catch who they think we might be. — Heid E. Erdrich
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青山交叠如画 我的目光泼墨而过，完成一轴山水 — 乃生 《行者》 Hills and mountains fold as in a painting My gaze, pouring over like ink, completes a scroll of landscape — by Nai Sheng
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The apples are thumping, winter is coming. The lips of the pumpkin soon will be humming. By the caw of the crow on the first of the year, Something will die, something appear. — from Maurice Kilwein Guevara “A Rhyme for Halloween”
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Here is a coast; here is a harbor; here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery; impractically shaped and—who knows?—self-pitying mountains, sad and harsh beneath their frivolous greenery, with a little church on top of one. And warehouses, some of them painted a…
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Between the striped walls of the canyon Burns a crescent of blue water, arresting, poignant: Jewel-blue, soul of opals and sapphires; Feather-blue, stain of indigo on the peacock’s breast; Flame-blue, color that hovers above the copper-saturated drift- wood in the beach-fire. And the tall white…
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