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phillipcrymble.bsky.social
phillip crymble
@phillipcrymble.bsky.social
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poet | phd | umichwriters alum | fiddlehead poetry editor | record collector | author of not even laughter | one-armed bandit | he/him
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phillipcrymble.bsky.social
phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 26d
A winter reverie.
THE STINGING FLY A Patch of Blue Jerry Goldsmith's title theme, its plaintive minor key arrangement, somehow welcoming the snow that falls outside our kitchen window. The rote activity of washing takes me miles away, and in that sweetest dream the music like a hand-embroidered counterpane—each note within the melody a cipher to be read and kept concealed. That we communicate at all is half mistake. I turn the thick LP, listen to the piano, all the silences it leaves— the hiss and crackle whispering of things so old they beggar history: a sound like fire in fields of wheat, the wind at sea. PHILLIP CRYMBLE
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Denise Levertov, from Candles in Babylon (1982)
Concurrence Each day's terror, almost a form of boredom--madmen at the wheel and stepping on the gas and the brakes no good-- and each day one, sometimes two, morning-glories, faultless, blue, blue sometimes flecked with magenta, each lit from within with the first sunlight.
January 18, 2026 at 6:30 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Yes, almost otherworldly. A poem of his I often return to.
January 18, 2026 at 1:34 AM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Alden Nowlan
Canadian January Night Ice storm: the hill a pyramid of black crystal down which the cars slide like phosphorescent beetles while I, walking backwards in obedience to the wind, am possessed of the fearful knowledge my compatriots share but almost never utter: this is a country where a man can die simply from being caught outside.
January 17, 2026 at 11:39 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Denise Levertov, from This Great Unknowing: Last Poems (1999)
ANCIENT STAIRWAY Footsteps like water hollow the broad curves of stone ascending, descending century by century. Who can say if the last to climb these stairs will be journeying downward or upward?
January 17, 2026 at 6:18 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Mary Oliver
Landscape in Winter Upon the snow that says nothing, that is endlessly brilliant, there is something heaped, dark and motionless. Then come the many wings, strong and bold. "Death has happened," shout the carrion crows. "And this is good for us."
January 16, 2026 at 6:35 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Rae Armantrout, from Ron Silliman's In the American Tree (1986)
VIEW Not the city lights. We want -the moon- The Moon none of our own doing!
January 16, 2026 at 4:15 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Linda Gregg
THE OTHER EXCITEMENT If I go back into memory it's not because I like it, but because that's where the hard things are. Nothing that gets excited. Almost ripe and the beauty of things in the middle distance. Going down the mountain.
January 15, 2026 at 8:47 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Asking for a friend.
Excerpt from Allen Ginsberg's "America" which reads "America is this correct?"
January 15, 2026 at 7:15 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Who would cut / her home to pieces and row away for that?

Maggie Smith, from Good Bones (2017)
YOU COULD NEVER TAKE A CAR TO GREENLAND, my daughter says. Unless the car could float. Unless by car you mean boat. Unless the ocean turned to ice and promised not to crack. Unless Greenland floated over here, having lifted its anchor. Unless we could row our country there. Our whole continent would have to come along, wouldn't it? Unless we cut ourselves free. What kind of saw could we use for that? What kind of oars could deliver one country to another? She asks, Why is Greenland called Greenland if it's not green? Why is Iceland called Iceland if it's greener than Greenland? Unless it's a trick, a lie: the name Greenland is an ad for Greenland. Who would go promised nothing but ice? Who would cut her home to pieces and row away for that?
January 14, 2026 at 4:08 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Congrats, Martina! How exciting.
January 13, 2026 at 2:00 PM
Reposted by phillip crymble
mobydickatsea.bsky.social
from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee
January 13, 2026 at 3:47 AM
Reposted by phillip crymble
alinaetc.bsky.social
By this law the knees are laced with abandon.

- Elizabeth Willis, “a maiden”
A Maiden When I found your face on a pillow of leaves you had already erased it. A nest so heavy can stay in the heavens only by reversal. By this law the knees are laced with abandon. I said to the young man. If watching is the manufacturer, and I lose you what angel takes the place of a dowry or distance in this leaf action?
January 13, 2026 at 1:10 AM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
The white flowers strain upward / Into a pallid air of their references

Another uncollected John Ashbery poem
A Vase of Flowers The vase is white and would be a cylinder If a cylinder were wider at the top than at the bottom. The flowers are red, white and blue. All contact with the flowers is forbidden. The white flowers strain upward Into a pallid air of their references, Pushed slightly by the red and blue flowers. If you were going to be jealous of the flowers, Please forget it. They mean absolutely nothing to me. 1962 (written ca. 1959)
January 13, 2026 at 12:39 AM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
It is. The poem can be found in the uncollected section of Collected Poems 1956-1987 (2008).
January 12, 2026 at 2:28 AM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
The principles he'd fought for
The dog saving him
All a dream
January 11, 2026 at 4:30 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
John Ashbery
The Night Cry Not with my full strength O not yet with my full strength Kneeling down to be closer to the water At night He had been drawn from his home by the gray fields To the black water Whose far runnels sounded distinct In the dawn of the gray fields The night standing The principles he'd fought for The dog saving him All a dream Which had comforted him without meaning to 1961 (written ca. 1958)
January 11, 2026 at 3:10 PM
Reposted by phillip crymble
cphillipspoet.bsky.social
“Making safety in the moment.” Linda Gregg
January 11, 2026 at 1:33 AM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
💯
January 10, 2026 at 6:34 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Charles Wright, from Littlefoot (2007)
I am the sign, I am the letter. I am the language that cannot be come to terms with. I will go to my resting place and will not be born again. I am what is scattered and cannot be gathered up. I am small, I am silence, I am what is not found.
January 10, 2026 at 4:02 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Thanks for doing this important work, Gregory. Love the use of "citizen" here. Charles Olson would approve.
January 9, 2026 at 7:30 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Terrance Hayes
American Sonnet For My Past And Future Assassin When walking hope is a swagger When sleeping hope is a lullaby When breathing hope is oxygen When drunk hope is liquor When dirty hope is water When unfilled hope is a well When unwell hope is medicine When impatient hope is patience When lonely hope is company When poor hope is money When hungry hope is meat When hunted hope is a knife When angry hope is a blade When wounded hope is what heals me.
January 9, 2026 at 7:10 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
"Was it Kafka who learned about America by reading the autobiography of Benjamin Franklin ..."
January 9, 2026 at 2:39 AM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
hang in there
January 9, 2026 at 2:15 AM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
It's Bowie's birthday today. The rest's up to you to intuit 🙂
January 8, 2026 at 9:52 PM
phillipcrymble.bsky.social
Nice catch. It's there in the phrasing and musicality, too.
January 8, 2026 at 9:49 PM