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phillip crymble

@phillipcrymble.bsky.social

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 14d

No screeners for this issue, folks. I’ll be reading and responding to every poetry submission.

If you identify as disabled, please submit!

The Fiddlehead @fiddlehd.bsky.social · 15d

Disability: The Revolution!

Special Issue Call for Submissions, Deadline November 30, 2025

If you identify as disabled and would like to answer this call, please submit! We would love to hear from you.

See the full call and instructions on how to submit here: thefiddlehead.ca/revolution

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 1h

🎶 I hurt myself today ...🎶

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 3h

Another ecstatic poem by Ross Gay, this one for general audiences.

Let Me Be
---after Levine

Like a one-armed boomerang
whistling through a typhoon's eye,
a steamship's blind plow
through miles of coal black, star-flecked sea,
like the swollen river's stubborn chew
through tons of stone, cars and trees
tiny floating buoys on my shoulders,
time enough and everything
worn to silty dust, I'm a goddamn
krill-bearded blue whale howling a deep sea
love scream, you see, I'm a spaceship
singing through a star's stinging heat
shroud, the fire gown, my heart
so fat and hot every passing thing joy-singed
with this overripe, honey-
stuffed, juggernaut sweetness;
let me be back to your sunlight lined lips,
your muscled hands, your morning eye's
first opening, let me be a glint
of sundust drifting down your windpipe's
glisten, lodging in your red-wet
bloodpump's silken clench, that ruby-
smooth muscle's every move, let me
be, let me be.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 4h

What's a great movie image that is ingrained in your head?

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 18h

Ross Gay, for the night crowd

Blowjob

It's just like the tongue, isn't it,
to fold you up
into a tiny origami swan
whose angled wings
splay and whose jutted neck
and beak point out over some expanse
of water a tugboat
hauling the mammoth frigate
upstream the reckless kayaker
tickling an eddy
the currents changing temperature
beneath your feet
as you paddle nowhere except into
the mouth of the one who
made you

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 23h

Laura Kasischke

Three Days

The dirty songbirds
that were my breasts
flustered
and sang
and ate me for
forty-eight years, two
months, one week, three
days, and left
behind
these wrecked nests.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 2d

A Larkinesque vignette by Tom Paulin, whose new collection was just shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize.

Pot Burial

He has married again. His wife
Buys ornaments and places them
On the dark sideboard. Year by year
Her vases and small jugs crowd out
The smiles of the wife who died.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 2d

Ha! Still a Pearl Jam recording, tho.

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 2d

Long Road with Neil Young on pump organ is undefeated.

The Long Road

YouTube video by Pearl Jam - Topic

www.youtube.com

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 3d

Tony Hoagland

Couture

If by mink
coat you mean
a soft, warm
garment
made from
the lives of
many other
creatures,
then, yeah, sure,
I guess you
could say I'm
wearing a
mink coat.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 4d

A Louise Glück miniature that appeared in The Threepenny Review in 2023. To my knowledge, it remains uncollected.

Passion and Form

Ah, they have kissed!
The rhyme
Comes in unnoticed.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 6d

So much going on in this remarkable poem by Joshua Mehigan.

A Contract

Their love ran out in March; their lease, in June.
He moved where cash allowed, took the room strewn
with near-junk unseen since their wedding day.
Home, then, was like a drawer where one might lock
loose pieces of a fallen antique clock.
She lived in bed, ate oatmeal from a tray,
read comics like a child bored with a cold.
He searched the bars for something nice to hold.

Then, drunk, he'd close his eyes and trace the day,
the day's soft flicker, down to a shrinking dot,
as though a ship were burning, far away.
She saw his razor on the sink, the cot
folded, the room he slept in not at all,
where once she'd wrapped him, waiting, in a shawl
and, warmed at last, he could pretend to wake.
He waited now, unseen, for no one's sake.

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Reposted by phillip crymble

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 7d

Another early poem by Cole Swensen. Can't get this one out of my head.

War on the Past

Love is just a clue.

If we win the world
can come back
to the world, speechless

aligned, cell within cell

You must put the objects
down on the table
and walk casually from the room
you cannot re-enter

until we get it right.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 7d

Another early poem by Cole Swensen. Can't get this one out of my head.

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Reposted by phillip crymble

knife | fork | book @knifeforkbook.bsky.social · 8d

Ten Years in the Making. Poetry. Well-served. #KFB10

knifeforkbook.com

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 8d

Mine was a Player's Navy Cut in a culvert by the A&P.

Reposted by phillip crymble

Alina Stefanescu @alinaetc.bsky.social · 8d

I remember my first cigarette. It was a Kent. Up on a hill. In Tulsa, Oklahoma. With Ron Padgett.

- Joe Brainard

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 8d

Wallace Stevens was born on this day in 1879. This uncollected poem by David Ignatow was written to commemorate his centenary.

WALLACE STEVENS

In Memoriam, 1879-1979

On an Ordinary Evening

by David Ignatow

I am back to walking alone
through silent streets lit by colorful windows
of the homes of responsible men and women,
and I refuse responsibility.
I am weeping without tears,
with hands jammed into pockets
under trees smelling of leaves
and grass of the gardens --
smelling the silence of stolidity
and peace and wanting no peace
until it is written in my poems.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 9d

this is good

Reposted by phillip crymble

Jane Huffman @janehuffman.bsky.social · 9d

It is October, so here is my poem, "October," published in Swamp Pink this month. Thank you to the editors, and thank you for reading. 🍁🍂 swamp-pink.charleston.edu/featured/oct...

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 9d

W. S. Merwin

Invocation

The day hanging by its feet with a hole
In its voice
And the light running into the sand

Here I am once again with my dry mouth
At the fountain of thistles
Preparing to sing.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 9d

Thought Cleveland was going to tie it for sure after that error in the 9th. If they had any chance of winning the series they needed that first game and they got it. Hell of a pitching performance.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 9d

nice

Reposted by phillip crymble

Amanda Leduc @amandaleduc.bsky.social · 11d

Disabled friends! I am thrilled to be overseeing @fiddlehd.bsky.social's Summer 2026 issue--DISABILITY: THE REVOLUTION.

Our theme is REVOLUTION and you can interpret that as widely as you like. If you identify as disabled and want to answer this call, please submit!

thefiddlehead.ca/revolution

[Image description: White text against a purple background: The Fiddlehead, Atlantic Canada's Literary Journal. Disability: The Revolution. The Fiddlehead's Summer 2026 Special Issue. Call for Submissions from Disabled Writers: Deadline November 30, 2025.]

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 10d

ha!

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 10d

the other one