Tessera

Caroline Bird

@carolinebirduk.bsky.social

Poet & playwright. 7th poetry collection, Ambush at Still Lake, out from Carcanet: https://shorturl.at/JXYCR. Winner of Forward Prize for Best Collection 2020 www.carolinebird.co.uk

65 Posts1765 Follower 443 Folgt

The Poetry Society @poetrysociety.org.uk · 2mo ago

Just one week to go! Are you a poet aged 11-17? Have you entered the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award yet? Our life-changing talent development scheme is free to enter, and poems can be on any theme. For more information, please visit foyleyoungpoets.org Deadline: 31st July 2026

Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 2mo ago

Czesław Miłosz, trs. the author & Lillian Vallee

ENCOUNTER

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

1936

Sasha Dugdale @sashadugdale.bsky.social · 2mo ago

Am I the only one who has to look up a flight number in a poem? This is the daily flight from LHR to SAN, peopled with birds and ghosts. from Michael Schmidt’s poignant new Smith | Doorstop pamphlet @carcanet.bsky.social

BA 0265 (poem
Title)
... the birds not perched but seated properly in rows as if with
opera glasses to follow the red sun down.
I miss you. The birds do. 'Shadows lengthen' and it's night for good for you. I'm confident it's not very dark wherever you have gone.
There are no flames, either. Hell's no destination.
Maybe still audible the waves chewing the rocks below your house or there's unhallowed harmony, or a low voice reading into your blindness another history audiobook.
Id like to share with you the names of some places I flew over to be here:
Medicine Hat, Gimly, Flin Flon, Pukatawagan, Red Sucker Lake, Pikangikum, Assinibole, Nipawin,
treeless Plentywood, with the ghosts of forests teeming with the ghosts of extinguished birds, and Carrot River dry as a skeleton.
It's a sort of history that bears me back to you.
Another time I'll tell you, when you're listening.

Laura McKee @lauramckee.bsky.social · 3mo ago

Ruth Stone’s birthday today ❤️ www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51285/...

At Eighty-Three She Lives Alone
BY RUTH STONE

Enclosure, steam-heated; a trial casket.
You are here; your name on a postal box; entrance into another place like vapor.
No one knows you. No one speaks to you.
All of their cocks stare down their pant legs at the ground. Their cunts are blind. They barely let you through the check-out line.
Have a nice day. Plastic or paper?
Are you origami? A paper folded swan, like the ones you made when you were ten?
When you saw the constellations, lying on your back in the wet grass, the soapy pear blossoms drifting
and wasting, and those stars, the burned out ones whose light was still coming in waves; your body was too slight.
How could it hold such mass?
Still on your lips the taste of something.
All night you waited for morning, all morning for afternoon, all afternoon for night; and still the longing sings.
Oh, paper bird with folded wings.

Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 3mo ago

RIP Lieke Marsman 💔 (tr. Sophie Collins)

One afternoon

there was once an afternoon with a face. a round face with a friendly mouth, decent nose and two small, shiny, inkblack eyes that you would look into whenever you would go get a glass of water from the kitchen or open a window in the front room. sometimes the afternoon would hum – sometimes happily, sometimes sadly, but always the same tune. as afternoon became evening the face would sing. first softly, then louder and louder as evening approached, until it was night, and the world would go quiet. as quiet as this house when, for example, I would go get a glass of water from the bathroom and my shiny, inkblack eyes would be watching me from the mirror above the sink, from the window in the front room. I’ve got to get out of my head, but if you knew how dissociated I’ve been feeling this statement wouldn’t make sense. it wouldn’t shock me if I woke up tomorrow as someone else but it would shock her.

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 3mo ago

Are you free next Tuesday 9th June, 7-9? Join me online here and become madly, desperately obsessed with line-breaks www.arvon.org/writing-cour...

Masterclass: Line Breaks | How the light gets in | Arvon

There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. – Leonard Cohen Line-breaks are thrilling, with multiple powers. They can enact the poem’s state of mind, unleash swathes of extra meaning...

arvon.org

Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 3mo ago

William Bronk

THE BODY OF THIS LIFE

I lie along the body of this life,
all night stilling my breath to listen to breath,
feeling its weight heavy against my weight.
Awake, in early light, I look at it
and set my eyes to search its hollows out,
its curves and surfaces, sojourning there
as walkers quarter whose aimless walks are a kind
of office in which they read the proper of the day,
slowing at pools of light under the trees,
impelled to certain roads, bemused at flowers,
as little knowing what a place should mean
or what they meant to find as I with you,
still sleeping, mute to me, or, waking now,
awake to some desire not my desire
and helpless to answer mine which puzzles itself
pondering what day that it were proper to
were here, that it should see in sets of bone,
in skin, in streaks of hair, some different sight
as if it were there and it not there,
nor know, at all, what sight it is it sees.

Dr. Han VanderHart @hanvanderhart.bsky.social · 3mo ago

Oh, I know all the arguments for and against my life— Cameron Awkward-Rich

"The Role of The Poet"

There are many kinds of poetry, each with its own affordances, implicit politics, posture vis-à-vis the hegemonic definitions of Literature and Man and, while I understand the many arguments against or indifferent to the lyric as a category / ideal / image of some white someone who, talking at the threshold of the interior (its dark heart, its bright walls, etc.), yes, just talking as if to no one thereby expands their world until it appears as if it were the world, the self, the imagination, terms, it should be said, that never quite (thankfully) address us but nonetheless press us to their service, watch us in the grocery store, what was I saying? Oh, I know all the arguments for and against my life-

Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 3mo ago

Grace Paley

Lena (they/them) 🩷💛🩵@petalsketch.bsky.social · 4mo ago

April by Mary Oliver

April
Mary Oliver

I wanted to speak at length about The happiness of my body and the Delight of my mind for it was April, a night, a full moon and -
But something in myself or maybe from somewhere other said: not too
Many words, please, in the muddy shallows the
Frogs are singing.

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 4mo ago

Cynthia Cruz ⸻ from the iowa anthology of new american poetries (2004)

How to Catch a Ghost in a Jar

That was the summer the bleeding stopped,
The summer the cold took over.
My hands, brittle as bismuth, blind as lab mice.
That was the summer I set the field on fire.
I am a closet of secrets, dying.
In gowns of torn cotton, bits of discarded trash-
Weed, dragged hem, white lace stained black,
I went missing beneath the din of the city.

The door to the World keeps opening and closing.

Luke Kennard @lukekennard.bsky.social · 5mo ago

One of my faves from Shakespeare Okuni’s (@i-shakespeare.bsky.social) brilliant A Twist of Rotten Silk, which I’m really enjoying today.

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 6mo ago

Join me and Rachel Long for a week of ‘love and terror’, a week long online course for The Writing School, May 11th-15th. JOIN US (she said in terrifying yet lovely voice) thewritingschool.co.uk/love-and-ter...

Love and Terror

LOVE AND TERROR ‘The poem carries love and terror, or it carries nothing’ - Jane Hirshfield. What makes a poem haunt us long after its read?Join poets Caroline Bird and Rachel Long for a week-long wri...

thewritingschool.co.uk

Litbowl @litbowl.bsky.social · 8mo ago

The last lines of this wreck me in the best of ways. From Kim Addonizio's book, Tell Me: bit.ly/tellmeBK #poetry #books #writing

Adam Gianforcaro @adamg.bsky.social · 8mo ago

Ada Limón

TORN
Witness the wet dead snake, its long hexagonal pattern weaved around its body like a code for creation, curled up cold on the newly tarred road.
Let us begin with the snake: the fact of death, the poverty of place, of skin and surface. See how the snake is cut in two—its body divided from its brain.
Imagine now, how it moves still, both sides, the tail dancing, the head dancing.
Believe it is the mother and the father.
Believe it is the mouth and the words.
Believe it is the sin and the sinner-the tempting, the taking, the apple, the fall, every one of us guilty, the story of us all.
But then return to the snake, pitiful dead thing, forcefully denying the split of its being, longing for life back as a whole, wanting you to see it for what it is: something that loves itself so much it moves across the boundaries of death to touch itself once more, to praise both divided sides equally, as if it was easy.

Todd Dillard @toddedillard.bsky.social · 8mo ago

Really, really happy to have a new poem in one of the first literary journals I ever read as a teen trying to find poems in the world. Here’s “After A Few Beers, My Uncle Asks Me How” in The Southern Review.

After a Few Beers, My Uncle Asks Me How

for Uncle Tommy

do you write a poem? It's like laying bricks,
I say. You put down one word, then another,
and after a while you've made this path.
Bullshit, my uncle says. Tell me the truth.
The trick, I say, is the bricks can be anything.
A window, the moon, even snow. Snow, my uncle says.
I remember when I was stationed in Germany in the 80’s.
There was this huge field outside the base.
It was the kind of cold that yanks your balls
up into your stomach, so much snow
you'd smoke a little hash and forget the planet
you were on was earth. I was on guard duty.
Some civilian on a snowmobile raced
out of the woods and rocketed across the field,
waves of powder foaming up around him. I remember
I shouted: Hey Man! Hey man you're trespassing!
But he didn't hear. I didn't hear the gun
fire, but when he fell off I knew why.
And the snowmobile growling like some animal.
I ask my uncle, If you could catch the bullet,
if you could turn the bullet into anything else,
what would you pick? My uncle takes a long drink.
Shit man, he says. Maybe a bird? And it appears:
a little white bird in his hands, its wingtips
freckled with red. What do you feed the bird?
I ask, and, like a piece of bread, my uncle tears
a corner off the field. The bird pecks it from his palms.
How did we get here? my uncle asks, but there's
so much snow, we can’t see the path. Before us,
a dark wood. You hear that? my uncle asks. And I do.
Something's in there. Something ancient, growling.

Second page of the poem in the journal; the entire poem is in the previous image and here:

After a Few Beers, My Uncle Asks Me How

for Uncle Tommy

do you write a poem? It's like laying bricks,
I say. You put down one word, then another,
and after a while you've made this path.
Bullshit, my uncle says. Tell me the truth.
The trick, I say, is the bricks can be anything.
A window, the moon, even snow. Snow, my uncle says.
I remember when I was stationed in Germany in the 80’s.
There was this huge field outside the base.
It was the kind of cold that yanks your balls
up into your stomach, so much snow
you'd smoke a little hash and forget the planet
you were on was earth. I was on guard duty.
Some civilian on a snowmobile raced
out of the woods and rocketed across the field,
waves of powder foaming up around him. I remember
I shouted: Hey Man! Hey man you're trespassing!
But he didn't hear. I didn't hear the gun
fire, but when he fell off I knew why.
And the snowmobile growling like some animal.
I ask my uncle, If you could catch the bullet,
if you could turn the bullet into anything else,
what would you pick? My uncle takes a long drink.
Shit man, he says. Maybe a bird? And it appears:
a little white bird in his hands, its wingtips
freckled with red. What do you feed the bird?
I ask, and, like a piece of bread, my uncle tears
a corner off the field. The bird pecks it from his palms.
How did we get here? my uncle asks, but there's
so much snow, we can’t see the path. Before us,
a dark wood. You hear that? my uncle asks. And I do.
Something's in there. Something ancient, growling.

Cover of the 2026 Winter Edition of The Southern Review featuring a blue-black background with a woman’s long white hair

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 9mo ago

If you fancy ‘thawing creative blocks’ in the new year and writing a flurry of new poems, I’ll be tutoring this residential with the wonderful Romalyn Ante (plus guest speaker Kostya Tsolakis!) from 26th-31st Jan. Join us! ❄️⁦‪⁦‪⁦‪⁦‪ @romalynante3.bsky.social @kostyatsolakis.bsky.social ‬⁩

Residential Writing Course: Poetry | Arvon

‘and it’s starting again, the longing that begins, and begins, and begins.’ Kim Addonizio Join award-winning writers Caroline Bird and Romalyn Ante in the depths of winter for an energising and playf...

arvon.org

Andrew Neilson @andrewjamesneilson.bsky.social · 8mo ago

Always this poem at this time of year. One of Michael Donaghy's startlers.

Resolution
The new year blurs the windowpane.
Soho surrenders to the rain as clouds break over Chinatown.
See how the storm's resolve winds down?
Its steel pins thin and mist away.
Get up. Come here and see the day.
Through this droplet's contact lens, the West End and the future tense look dainty, vacant, and convex.
We haven't seen such weather since the morning they invented sex.
And yet, baptized, by rain and gin, of last year's unoriginal sins of inattention and cliché, this looks like every other day that we will never see again.
Courage. Coffee. Aspirins.
Our window on the world begins to dry, the breakfast bulletins appal, the civil voices lie, our private garden cloud with doubt.
So let me make this crystal clear: the rain has stopped. Your taxi's here.
The New Year bells will ring you out.

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 8mo ago

My favourite new year James Tate poem: The Immortals None of us have felt good this year: pus around the eyes, sores that come and go with no explanation. But we still believe we will come through it! I signal this news by lifting a little finger.

Falling Tree Productions @fallingtreeprod.bsky.social · 9mo ago

In the company of other poets, @carolinebirduk.bsky.social explored the silences when it feels like poetry has abandoned you in our BBC Radio 3 documentary ‘When the Words Leave’, produced by Eleanor McDowall m.soundcloud.com/fallingtreep...

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 9mo ago

Residential Writing Course: Poetry | Arvon

arvon.org

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 9mo ago

Tomorrow!

Caroline Bird@carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 9mo ago

If you haven’t booked this yet, do JOIN ME on Dec 16th for our Christmas tradition of writing a frankly ridiculous amount of new poems… 🎄

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 9mo ago

So chuffed to hear Maxine Peake is nominated for ‘Best Performer’ by @whatsonstage.bsky.social awards - for the title role in my play “The Last Stand of Mrs Mary Whitehouse.” It really was a phenomenal performance. @nottmplayhouse.bsky.social

Emma Harding @emmaharding.bsky.social · 9mo ago

The Poetry Detective with Vanessa Kisuule is back 4pm today @BBCRadio4 looking for poems that can help us think through the things we wrestle with. Today: Doomscrolling. With help from @carolinebirduk.bsky.social among others. Producer Ellie Richold www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m...

BBC Radio 4 - The Poetry Detective, Doomscrolling

Vanessa Kisuule unearths poems that offer us insight into the issues that ail us most.

bbc.co.uk

The Poetry Society @poetrysociety.org.uk · 9mo ago

🕰️ With the year coming to an end, we asked a selection of our contributors to give us their favourite poetry books and pamphlets of 2025. Next is Jane Clarke's pick: Something New: Alternative Poems for Alternative Weddings, edited by Caroline Bird & Rachel Long (Picador). Thank you Jane!

Jane Clarke recommends Something New: Alternative Poems for Alternative Weddings, edited by Caroline Bird & Rachel Long and says: I recommend this book for the joy of discovering excitingly diverse poems celebrating the ordinary miracle of love.

John Self @john-self.bsky.social · 9mo ago

One Source of Bad Information, by Robert Bly (quoted in Wild Things: A Geography of Grief by Barbara Wansbrough)

There's a boy in you about three
Years old who hasn't learned a thing for thirty Thousand years. Sometimes it's a girl.

This child had to make up its mind
How to save you from death. He said things like:
"Stay home. Avoid elevators. Eat only elk."

You live with this child, but you don't know it.
You're in the office, yes, but live with this boy
At night. He's uninformed, but he does want
To save your life. And he has. Because of this boy You survived a lot. He's got six big ideas.
Five don't work. Right now he's repeating them
to you.

Robert Bly, 'One Source of Bad Information'

phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 9mo ago

There is hope. / There is hope everywhere. Anne Sexton

SNOW

Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the sky
like bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets
and each branch wears the sock of God.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don't bite till you know
if it's bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail.

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 9mo ago

Tomorrow! I’ll be performing at Soho Poly alongside the poetry-forces-of-nature that are Joelle Taylor and Will Harris. Tickets here: sohopoly.co.uk/events/soho-po…. Hosted and curated by the brilliant Hannah Copley @hannahcopley.bsky.social

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 9mo ago

The Only Yak in Batesville, Virginia … Stephen Sexton shared this Oni Buchanan poem on a recent arvon course we taught together about obsessions… and now I am obsessed with this poem. The tragedy of a yak falling in love with a horse…

Caroline Bird @carolinebirduk.bsky.social · 9mo ago

If you haven’t booked this yet, do JOIN ME on Dec 16th for our Christmas tradition of writing a frankly ridiculous amount of new poems… 🎄

Masterclass: Infinite Ways in to Writing Poems | Tackling big subjects with wonder | Arvon

For the third year running, with all new prompts and exercises, Arvon favourite Caroline Bird returns for our final Masterclass of the year, which promises to be a bolt of creativity to kick-start som...

arvon.org