Tom Snarsky
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tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Tom Snarsky
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
5.8K followers 4.8K following 3.5K posts
He collected things, each of a holy intention in isolation, but pagan in the variety of his choice.
—William Gaddis

📚 @anothernewcalligraphy.com, @ornithopterpress.bsky.social, @animalheartpress.bsky.social, @brokensleepbooks.bsky.social
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tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 25d
might be biting off more than I can chew here but I started one of these today to share some writing, mostly about poems but maybe also some other stuff (philosophy, math, music, fiction, etc.)! there’s a little intro post now and the first “real” post goes out within the hour :)
[A picture of a possum with an open book] Pier’s End by Tom Snarsky Rear and subscribe at piersend.substack.com
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
jajobi.bsky.social
in the right lane standing
tomsnarsky.bsky.social Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 1d
today is my birthday, and I couldn’t imagine a better way to celebrate than having a new poem out in Burial Magazine! infinite gratitude to Z. H. Gill for giving this one a beautiful home :) 🙏
Eleven Beers by Tom Snarsky Whenever Sid would drink, he would drink Eleven beers. This created some logistical Problems, including a bad stomach and no Driver’s license, but one advantage was the One beer left over from the twelve-pack: Sid would save the flimsy paperboard from One of the twelve-packs, slowly filling it with Survivors, though their survival was only Temporary. Then when it was filled up All the way Sid would go out to the lake, Drink eleven beers, and instead of saving One like usual he would open the last beer And pour it into the water, where the little Bluegill would be visibly confused in the Shallows. One time, driving home from the Lake, Sid didn’t notice the blue heron in the Right lane, standing, but since he’d swerved So far over the midline anyway the bird, Instead of being killed, flew safely away.
November 25, 2025 at 9:15 AM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Allen Ginsberg
I learned a world from each m one whom I loved; so many worlds without a Zodiac.
November 25, 2025 at 12:27 AM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
today is my birthday, and I couldn’t imagine a better way to celebrate than having a new poem out in Burial Magazine! infinite gratitude to Z. H. Gill for giving this one a beautiful home :) 🙏
Eleven Beers by Tom Snarsky Whenever Sid would drink, he would drink Eleven beers. This created some logistical Problems, including a bad stomach and no Driver’s license, but one advantage was the One beer left over from the twelve-pack: Sid would save the flimsy paperboard from One of the twelve-packs, slowly filling it with Survivors, though their survival was only Temporary. Then when it was filled up All the way Sid would go out to the lake, Drink eleven beers, and instead of saving One like usual he would open the last beer And pour it into the water, where the little Bluegill would be visibly confused in the Shallows. One time, driving home from the Lake, Sid didn’t notice the blue heron in the Right lane, standing, but since he’d swerved So far over the midline anyway the bird, Instead of being killed, flew safely away.
November 24, 2025 at 4:11 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
eleanorball.bsky.social
Obsessed with this one by @esichr.bsky.social from HAD (I forget if I’ve shared it before, but it’s so good it’s definitely worth sharing twice!)
November 24, 2025 at 3:52 AM
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
W. S. Graham
Under September and the loud moving Of mountain writing and words in ruin A red nerve runs in a globe of dew Related for ever to this river Past the imperfect world and iron Of bright estates and a quelled shire. At her faintly history of webbed perishing I, under dusk and caw-witted smouldering Wear the western doors and angel on my tongue.
November 24, 2025 at 2:10 AM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
susanbarryschulz.com
N. Scott Momaday
#smallpoemsunday
Photo of a page with the following Poem: TO AN AGED BEAR Hold hard this infirmity. It defines you. You are old. Now fix yourself in summer, In thickets of ripe berries, And venture toward the ridge Where you were born. Await there The setting sun. Be alive To that old conflagration One more time. Mortality Is your shadow and your shade. Translate yourself to spirit; Be present on your journey. Keep to the trees and waters. Be the singing of the soil. N Scott Momaday
November 23, 2025 at 11:20 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
katebbeall.bsky.social
A little Emily Dickinson for #SmallPoemSunday, one that’s been playing in my head through the bizarre news cycles of this week.
1534 I do not care - why should I care And yet I fear I'm caring To rock a fretting truth to sleep - Is short security The terror it will wake Persistent as perdition Is harder than to face The frank adversity -
November 23, 2025 at 11:57 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
airbudhockey.bsky.social
Arda Collins #smallpoemsunday
Shaded Road My life seems short and uninteresting but I like it. Oh, this is something only I see, my mind’s short hop back to where I had been, a young, smiling, rounded face, lonely and afraid. Really though, where am I? A spool of thread, the garden in the alley, evening, dim as it courses through my ears, blood from stars.
November 23, 2025 at 11:09 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
sarahbc.bsky.social
Elinor Wylie, making "muddy roads of all your hands"

for #smallpoemsunday!
ESCAPE When foxes eat the last gold grape, And the last white antelope is killed, I shall stop fighting and escape Into a little house I'll build. But first I'll shrink to fairy size, With a whisper no one understands, Making blind moons of all your eyes, And muddy roads of all your hands. And you may grope for me in vain In hollows under the mangrove root, Or where, in apple-scented rain, The silver waspnests hang like fruit.
November 23, 2025 at 9:46 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
retrodes.net
“I may, I might, I must” by Marianne Moore
I MAY, I MIGHT, I MUST If you will tell me why the fen appears impassable, I then will tell you why I think that I can get across it if I try.
November 23, 2025 at 2:58 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
thaddevassie.bsky.social
SOLMAZ SHARIF

This poem appears in her exceptional debut LOOK (2016) from @graywolfpress.bsky.social

#smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social
November 23, 2025 at 7:50 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
garybarwin.bsky.social
#smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social
November 23, 2025 at 7:21 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
adrianf.bsky.social
Ross Gay

catalog of unabashed gratitude

#smallpoemsunday
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
ode to the flute A man sings by opening his mouth a man sings by opening his lungs by turning himself into air a flute can be made of a man nothing is explained a flute lays on its side and prays a wind might enter it and make of it at least a small final song
November 23, 2025 at 6:30 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
manyface.bsky.social
happy #smallpoemsunday

this is invite by melita matsinhe, translated by beth hickling-moore from mozambican portuguese :0 i think it's so beautiful and vital and mysterious and a real celebration of life on earth!

@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Invite From mystical blood and life we imbibe. Long live libation of the sap which spouts a secret, invisible.
November 23, 2025 at 5:24 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
thaumatropia.bsky.social
good morning to unsubstantial sorrows
tomsnarsky.bsky.social Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 2d
Pentti Saarikoski, tr. Herbert Lomas
I’m roaming the meadow longing to be a poet whose song would move stones and organise city walls make trees walk to carpenters that build homes for people An unsubstantial sorrow is a heavy burden but still, still I want to see everything in unfamiliar marine light
November 23, 2025 at 4:22 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
lenaozge.bsky.social
"I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone."

#poetry #smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social
November 23, 2025 at 4:14 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
luaz.bsky.social
For #SmallPoemSunday, here's "Daily Riffs", collected in *Becoming Altar*, available from asterismbooks.com

@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
DAILY RIFFS in the limited realm of the candle there are few choices, and who makes them? burn, melt, drip, or don't. I woke just as it started to rain so listened to that for a little while. exactitude sits on the day like a thick heavy hat, one that's a size too large and keeps falling down to cover the eyes. oh season! how long are you going to be? the game board is getting dusty but does anyone care? no. let's go outside. it's raining or isn't. animals are waking up. a bird has something to say.
November 23, 2025 at 3:55 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
ezhang77.bsky.social
One of mine from my tiny chapbook, “The Moon, My Heart” www.tinywrenlit.com/product-page...

#smallpoemsunday
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
White Rabbit Once, we could eat anything we wanted. We gorged on peaches and red bean cakes. We sucked on White Rabbit candy. The moon was empty and my heart was you. Now, there are only rice paper ghosts on my tongue, while Li Bai looks up and is blinded by what he sees.
November 23, 2025 at 3:47 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
raymondgibson.bsky.social
bsky.app/profile/raym...
raymondgibson.bsky.social Raymond Gibson @raymondgibson.bsky.social · 2d
Dulce María Loynaz trans . James O’Connor #smallpoemsunday
November 23, 2025 at 3:26 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
j-tkelly.bsky.social
Categories #smallpoemsunday
Categories On the one hand you have everything that exists. On the other hand you have everything else.
November 23, 2025 at 3:24 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
fakeourway.bsky.social
Mark Yakich from The Making Of Collateral Beauty

#smallpoemsunday
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
prose Sonnet The shirt in the poem was real, the house was not, and the last line was stolen from a philosopher who was in love with a 13-year-old boy. The attic window from which the reader views all of this alleged failing in love was pentagonal, red and yellow stained glass. Over the years, many neighborhood kids have tried to knock out the window with rocks and baseballs, but it can only be smashed from the inside out.
November 23, 2025 at 3:12 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
themountaingoats.bsky.social
I will participate in small poem Sunday with this mysterious two line koan I found among my notes
Old elevators are trying so hard
November 23, 2025 at 2:54 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
j-tkelly.bsky.social
#smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social
themountaingoats.bsky.social the Mountain Goats @themountaingoats.bsky.social · 2d
I will participate in small poem Sunday with this mysterious two line koan I found among my notes
Old elevators are trying so hard
November 23, 2025 at 3:10 PM
Reposted by Tom Snarsky
monostich.bsky.social
A poem I wrote thirty years ago, one that I still like.
The Back Seat And for an instant, hands out the window, Bent by the force, awe and sunlight streaming Through new fingers, formed in that reckless crucible, Our wonder at the smearing rushing world, The terminus upon thin wrists: Joy's pure, wavering shadow.
November 23, 2025 at 3:10 PM