iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

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SE Gyges @segyges.bsky.social · 07/09/2026

you know what, challenge accepted. quotes that express ideas that are challenged or recontextualized by LLMs 🧵 "When I think in words, I don’t have ‘meanings’ in my mind in addition to the verbal expressions; rather, language itself is the vehicle of thought" -- Wittgenstein

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Alec Finlay @alecfinlay.bsky.social · 10/09/2026

the finest small language model we have is the poem

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🇨🇦JOY 🇨🇦 @joycomes.bsky.social · 31/08/2026

Cinereous Mourner chick Amazon rainforest The nestling is covered in bright orange downy feathers it looks just like a poisonous caterpillar. Once the chick grows old enough to defend itself and leave the nest, its flamboyant orange plumage falls away replaced by the plain, ashy-gray feathers.

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Tobias Wilson-Bates @phdhurtbrain.bsky.social · 24/08/2026

Charles Dickens: ok, so there’s this orphan Editor: we’ve done this one Dickens: but *this* orphan suffers terribly from being poor Editor: sure Dickens: but here’s the catch Editor: (*leans forward) Dickens: he’s. actually. RICH! Editor: good god, magnificent!

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Satya Dash @satyadash.bsky.social · 25/08/2026

No cheating. Share the last photo of the sky from your photo roll.

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Mat Riches @matriches.bsky.social · 21/08/2026

That @roguestrands.bsky.social has bet me a free KFC that this post won't get 150+ reposts/ lead to any sales of my pamphlet, Collecting the Data (Available via me or Red Squirrel Press). Help me prove him wrong please. A Mat Needs His Nuggs* * Booksales www.redsquirrelpress.com/product-page...

Screen shot of Mat Riches' poem called Riches.

Riches

It looked like the sort of wedge 
that would choke a shire horse to death:  
two grand in bundles of fifties, 
their waists pinched by red rubber bands.  

You asked me to count the lot, 
then drove away to meet a man  
who knew a man, and came back late 
in a lime-green Ford Cortina. 

I thought we were made of money
when you let me sit in your lap  
and we reverse-parked it, my feet  
pressing on your feet in the dark.

Taken from my pamphlet called Collecting The Data. I'd love you to buy a copy from me or via Red Squirrel Press. If you get it from me it will be signed (if you want it to be).

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Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 10/08/2026

7 years ago today my wife & I got married on the most beautiful (& maybe also sweatiest) day of my life. every year I reread this Katie Ford poem that was part of our ceremony and I feel lucky & grateful anew for “what I can know and admit to knowing,”—happy anniversary Kristi, I love you so much :)

ALL I EVER WANTED
When I thought it was right to name my desires, what I wanted of life, they seemed to turn like bleating sheep, not to me, who could have been a caring, if unskilled, shepherd, but to the boxed-in hills beyond which the blue mountains sloped down
with poppies orange as crayfish all the way to the Pacific seas in which the hulls of whales steered them in search of a mate for whom they bellowed in a new, highly particular song
we might call the most ardent articulation of love, the pin at the tip of evolution, modestly shining.
In the middle of my life
it was right to say my desires
but they went away. I couldn't even make them out, not even as dots now in the distance.
Yet I see the small lights
of winter campfires in the hills-teenagers in love often go there for their first nights—and each yellow-white glow tells me what I can know and admit to knowing, that all I ever wanted
was to sit by a fire with someone
who wanted me in measure the same to my wanting.
To want to make a fire with someone, with you, was all.

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Alexander Chee @alexanderchee.bsky.social · 10/08/2026

Mary Ruefle on The Odyssey.

Deconstruction
I think the sirens in the Odyssey sang the Odyssey, for there is nothing more seductive, more terrible, than the story of our own life, the one we do not want to hear and will do anything to listen to.

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Michael Warburton @michaelwarburton.bsky.social · 08/08/2026

Tarantino's PULP FICTION (1994) meets Edward Hopper's ‘Nighthawks’ (1942).

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Tobias Wilson-Bates @phdhurtbrain.bsky.social · 09/08/2026

Reading the Vegetarian right after finishing Brothers Karamazov, the one read over 8 months and the other read entirely today, it’s fascinating the consider how the conjunction and sequence of our reading influences the reading experience.

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Poetry Daily @poetrydaily.bsky.social · 08/08/2026

Today's Feature: "Those Flowers" by Ángel García from Indifferent Cities published by @tupelopress.bsky.social Read here: poems.com/poem/those-f...

poems.com

Those Flowers

no one listens: except the dead:

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Dr. Han VanderHart @hanvanderhart.bsky.social · 07/08/2026

Something that is so wonderful to me is that Martha published the opening poem of this book in 1968 in Poetry Magazine—before either editor at River River was born.

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Kunjana Parashar @kunjana.bsky.social · 31/05/2025

Loved reading this by José Olivarez so much that my friends & I got inspired & resurrected our poetry-reading practice here: open.substack.com/pub/thissmal...

open.substack.com

This Small Door #1

An Introduction and A Poem

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R.E.M. @remhq.bsky.social · 02/07/2026

“Now it’s time to sing along” “Everybody Hurts” from Live 8: July 2, 2005 in Hyde Park, London.

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Jessica Coles @prairievixen.bsky.social · 18/05/2024

The line breaks in this poem are magnificent and perfect.

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David Atkinson @davidatkinsonpoet.bsky.social · 02/05/2026

I love how this poem moves from funny to serious I've seen this. The bar in Belfast International Airport. We heard the alarm, could smell the smoke & sat on & finished our pints. I have witnessed the second half of the poem too. It's time to pour our pints on the fire #Poetry #Poemoftheday

Poem - 'The Problem with Early Warnings' by Charles Rafferty

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D. A. Powell @dapowell.bsky.social · 25/04/2026

Reading Carl Phillips is always a distinct pleasure, an awakening into the world as if seeing for the first time.

THE CLOSING HOUR

There are pleasures so ordinary that we barely notice them. They leave no impression worth mentioning, even. Not the leaves but the delicate under-leaves that we'd somehow missed. Not the stranger whom we've never met, whom we pass on the walk each morning, but the matched set of off-white-not-quite-ivory-though spaniels that seem to float like two patches of low fog to either side of him. I used to worry about the impression I left on others; and then I really don't remember which came first: I grew up? I grew tired? Desire had become by then something different from what it had been. More hurricane than tornado, its damage therefore more easily at least prepared against, if not forestalled. That certain gestures don't so much linger as seem to make a routine of unexpectedly becoming more apparent some moments than at others doesn't mean we miss them, means there were parts that we loved. I regret almost nothing. I come

in peace A lost beast A crown of feather grass A matching wreath

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Jayasree Kalathil @vivarthaka.bsky.social · 03/03/2026

Advance notice 😊

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D. A. Powell @dapowell.bsky.social · 23/03/2026

Ohh good! I've been waiting for this to be a book and now it's a book. Check out Rogue Astronaut by @mitchelljacobs.bsky.social

Foreplay

Oh, his sweet, small cuss. "Shit, sorry I kneed you," he said, pausing

to check for a bruise. "I know you need me," I grinned, having never been sexy, only clever,

even if it meant bending the truth. Then he pressed his fist to my chest, kneading me.

Sometimes when I am dead to language I remember this.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 14/03/2026

Another remarkable poem by Carl Phillips from our winter issue

Making a Sound Like Darkness

If it weren't immodest, I'd say modesty's
one of the few things left about me that I can
almost admire, still,
except it's hardly a thing worth
caring one way or another about, to have been
who one is.
Look at the trees,
not trying at all to be anyone's idea
of flourishing without
an instinct to make what can't be held
holdable:
the struggling first;
the bit of hush, just after; then the longer
shadows getting cast by everything I remember wanting.

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 06/03/2026

SO many great poems in these old issues of The New Yorker

$UNFOLDING If there is no spirit unfolding itself in history, No gradual growth of consciousness Beneath the land grabs and forced migrations, The bought elections, the betrayal of trust By party faction in the name of progress- What about spirit in the personal realm Unfolding slowly inside us, so slowly That our best days seem like a holding action? Seasons repeat themselves, but the tree Shading the yard keeps growing. Don't be chagrined that the sadness you felt This evening beside the bed of a friend Who's growing weaker wasn't more profound Than the sadness of yesterday, that you still Can't imagine a fraction of what he's feeling As the world he loves slips from his grasp. No progress from your perspective, But who's to say what you might notice If the scroll of the last few months were unrolled On the table before you, how clear it might be That your your understanding of all you're losing In losing him has been slowly deepening? Another day, you say to yourself, at dusk As you climb your porch steps, which you notice Could use some scraping and painting this weekend, A fresh coat that with luck will last a year. --Carl Dennis$

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phillip crymble @phillipcrymble.bsky.social · 04/03/2026

A heartbreaking poem by one of Canada's finest

A MARRIAGE

His paintings were small, suggestions
of houses, pinpricks of green for trees.
She'd set her glass down, say, Paint
like you're blind, from memory and passion—
two words he especially didn't care for.
She'd say, Paint like you're on fire.
But their house was already burning,
and he was going blind and deaf.
So he'd carry the painting back down
to the basement, resume with
his thinnest sable brush. He would
never touch her the way she wanted,
though she kept asking him to,
like this, in front of everybody.

— Julie Bruck

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Emma Bolden @emmabolden.bsky.social · 03/03/2026

i'm very honored to have two poems in the latest issue of waxwing, including this one, which feels ... timely. you can visit both poems and the rest of the issue, which i'm lucky to be a part of, here: waxwingmag.org

Golgotha

Emma Bolden

Flayed flat, a lion, a night burnished bright.
There was a sea of cloth and fang. There was a woman
who sang all night, a single note the birds caught

in their beaks. There was a miracle or there wasn’t.
There was the holy spectacle of belief. The people swore
it meant something, the way they shook, the way terror

thorned through the trees, but everything continued to exist,
flat as a painting, as the open breaking through a wound.
There was a sky. The blue-lipped the worms did their work.

The people looked at each other and saw ignition, their own
terrors crowning them in perfect, piercing arrows of flame.

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Alina Stefanescu @alinaetc.bsky.social · 23/02/2026

I remember reading Rilke’s Duino Elegies again and again and again, until I “got” them, until something burst over me like a flood, and I remember, once again, weeping and weeping with a book in my hands. - Mary Ruefle, "I Remember, I Remember"

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Alina Stefanescu @alinaetc.bsky.social · 20/02/2026

You sleep with your head balled up in its dreams. - C. D. Wright, "Hotels"

In the semidark we take everything off,
love standing, inaudible; then we crawl into bed.
You sleep with your head balled up in its dreams,
I get up and sit in the chair with a warm beer,
the lamp off. Looking down on a forested town
in a snowfall I feel like a novel — dense
and vivid, uncertain of the end — watching
the bundled outlines of another woman another man
hurrying toward the theater’s blue tubes of light.

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Satya Dash @satyadash.bsky.social · 11/02/2026

Backwaters in Kerala! A muscular calmness.

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The Yale Review @yalereview.bsky.social · 26/01/2026

For Carl Phillips, writing poems began as an act of necessity—as a way to stay alive. In TYR today, Phillips looks back at his debut collection. yalereview.org/article/carl...

yalereview.org

Carl Phillips: “My First Book Outed Me”

While writing my debut collection of poems, I discovered both my queerness and my calling as a poet.

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Ewen Glass @ewenglass.bsky.social · 30/01/2026

Periodic reminder that @janezwart.bsky.social is one of the best out there right now. This from @sixthfinch.bsky.social.

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Emma Bolden @emmabolden.bsky.social · 21/01/2026

a while back @toddedillard.bsky.social and @toddpetersen.bsky.social suggested i write a poem from one of my posts. the todds are two of my favorite people, so i did, and @baltimorereview.bsky.social was kind enough to take it. plz check out the issue: baltimorereview.org

WHEN I SAY MY HEART IS FULL, I MEAN IT’S FULL OF GHOSTS

On the monitor flashes a creature that’s nothing like a heart.
The cardiologist says this is normal. I think there is nothing

normal about having inside of your body an animal that jumps
and stutters and stops beyond your will, wild even in grayscale
on the doctor’s monitor. Outside the elms branch into branches

that bud with leaves; the trees collect their secrets in rings inside,
truths they’ll tell only after the axe kills them. I think sometimes

this is also true of the soul and the body and then I’m miserable,
imagining that at the moment of death I’ll reveal every humiliation
ringing its truth through my trunk. The cardiologist has no metaphors,

just advice: less caffeine. More water. More walking. On the screen
my heart is silent, still the floating ghost of a beast running weird

in black and white. Then I’m outside; the elm has dropped
the bright crescents of its leaves all over my car like a prophecy.
None of us get out of this world without losing, without something

of the self hitting the asphalt, hitting a high green note to howl out
the history of how it felt to vanish under a tire’s tread.

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Susan L. Leary @susanlleary.bsky.social · 14/01/2026

I can’t imagine my life without the poetry of Carl Phillips 💙 @cphillipspoet.bsky.social

Blurry Finally in Too Soon Each of Us

A water-meadow is not a flood-meadow.

A working meadow's not a fallow field.

Heartbreak like a bloodhound better off abandoned because untamable.

There's a slant of light I used to call Self-Portrait as a Lion, Bringing Down a Stag.

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AGNI @agnimagazine.bsky.social · 13/01/2026

Here, where his body lay, gather up all the broken-stemmed flowers; photograph the water, that in the wind repeatedly makes for shore and misses— ~from "The Glade" by Carl Phillips AGNI 33

buff.ly

The Glade

Here, complete with half-swallowed cry of small game rising, stirring the light, is that ease with which a legend goes languorously down on itself, slow-dying; this is the air left behind, thick with…

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Satya Dash @satyadash.bsky.social · 06/01/2026

Armen Davoudian from “The Palace of Forty Pillars” 💙 ✨

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Ben Niespodziany 📚🎪 @neonpajamas.bsky.social · 05/01/2026

Sarah Rose Nordgren those final few lines are untouchable

THE PERFORMANCE

It's not right that she should do this
to her boddy as she speaks,

but it's the only way we can understand her.
We who weren't raised on sand

and cherry pits. Whose stepfathers
held their tempers.

The South is a mean place
we forget about. The windows

boarded up all over town. She says,
dogs chased her down the tar-

soaked road like devils. Each dog with three
heads, three tails. She says,

we might've mocked her story,
but never now. First, she strikes nails

against her chest like matches.
Then, when we think we can't

take more from her, she eats
her own hands. Who are we now

to say that art should not destroy us?

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josé olivarez @joseolivarez.bsky.social · 21/05/2025

I’ve gotten a lot of great feedback on this post, so I’m sharing it again: How to Read Poetry like a Poet: open.substack.com/pub/joseoliv...

open.substack.com

Read Like A Poet Vol. 1

Featuring Jack Gilbert's The Forgotten Dialect of The Heart

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Blackbird: an online journal of literature and the arts @blackbirdjournal.bsky.social · 02/01/2026

What a gut punch of a quote. Oof. Thank you, Corey Zeller, for this stunner! Read the full poem at the link below. 🐦‍⬛ blackbird.vcu.edu/a-good-way-t...

White page with a chartreuse border. Title at top reads, “A Good Way to Fall in Love is to Turn Off the Headlights and Drive Very Fast Down Dark Roads.” Beneath the title is the author name, “Corey Zeller” Below, a block of prose reads: “In this poem, a poet says he cannot recognize his hands. In this poem, a poet says blossom a lot. Blossom after blossom after blossom. In this poem, Dean Young says we are full of holes. In another poem, Dean Young and Tony Hoagland talk about birds. About Dean Young’s heart surgery. How the new heart learning to beat inside him was like poetry.” A horizontal line separates the text from the footer. At the bottom left, italic text reads, “Poetry / Blackbird v24n1.” At the bottom right is a small blackbird icon.

Black-and-white portrait photograph of Corey Zeller on what appears to be a train, seated next to a window at a table. The image is framed by a chartreuse border.

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Alina Stefanescu @alinaetc.bsky.social · 02/01/2026

Still fascinated by the slant rhyme of shadows in this.

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Susan L. Leary @susanlleary.bsky.social · 28/12/2025

Sharing the opening poem, “Pseudo Myth” from MORE FLOWERS, out with @triohousepress.org on February 1st, 2026! 🌺 #smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social

Pseudo Myth

Again, I've confused the horseman for the horse, the artillery of a muscle for a minor hero's sling. What we do in the name of obedience, not thinking wonder has
anything to gain over wit. The wheel, at times, will envy the hands that clutch it. The horse, the inoperable reigns. Trust me. I, who have neither head nor heart, whose name is not mine but Girl. What's torn through the center is as good a guide
as any.

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scare-ah 👻 @sarahmillswrites.bsky.social · 01/01/2026

ooh yes this is what we call voice #booksky

the cover of THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE THE TIME WAR by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone, depicting a red cardinal and blue bird

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Ben Niespodziany 📚🎪 @neonpajamas.bsky.social · 09/02/2025

One of my new favorite prose poems has entered the chat Hedgie Choi, from her debut collection Salvage (2025)

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Bhavya Bhagtani @bhavyabhagtani.bsky.social · 24/12/2025

vinod kumar shukla ji's passing feels oddly personal, an unnavigable grief. his words are the closest i've come to feeling understood by poetry. grateful i had the fortune of interviewing him earlier this year. rest in peace, vinod ji. this loss is monumental. blackbird.vcu.edu/interview-wi...

blackbird.vcu.edu

Interview with Vinod Kumar Shukla

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