saturnrising:

Living in and out of the past,
inexplicably
so many things have died
in me.

In and out like a tide,
each tear
holds a tiny hologram.
Even this early
I am full of years.

Here are the little gravestones
where memory
stands in the wild grass,
watching the future
arrive in a line of big black cars.

All days
lost days, in and out of themselves
between dreaming
and dreaming again and half-
remembering.

Carol Ann Duffy, All Days Lost Days,” from New Selected Poems 1984-2004 (Picador 2004) (via be-i-ng)

#poetry  #ouch  

Still tired. More tired. Tireder, tiredest, tired ad nauseam, tired infinitum.

Christopher Knight + (via mythologyofblue)

always

theparisreview:

Mr. Berg Waves to the Sky

He raised his hand above his head.
His hair was a surface of gray,
his hand a semaphore.
No one to answer, to call.
His hand raised, and he wasn’t sure.
The symmetry of his body broken,
one arm up, one arm down.
His name was still Berg.
His hand had spoken,
nevertheless, above him.

Lavina Blossom. Art: Unknown, Sunset Sky.

#poetry  #art  

acuratedmoment:

Ana Teresa Barboza

(via filthiestlaugh)

Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar…

 William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury  (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

this, on every last train ride into work

(via saturnrising)

Joyce analyzes something still more ungraspable than Proust’s “lost time”: the present moment. There would seem to be nothing more obvious, more tangible and palpable, than the present moment. And yet it eludes us completely. All the sadness of life lies in that fact. In the course of a single second, our senses of sight, of hearing, of smell, register (knowingly or not) a swarm of events, and a parade of sensations and ideas passes through our heads. Each instant represents a little universe, irrevocably forgotten in the next instant. Now, Joyce’s great microscope manages to stop, to seize, that fleeting instant and make us see it.

Milan Kundera, The Art of the Novel  (via filthiestlaugh)

(via filthiestlaugh)

fluttering-slips:

[Because desire won’t shrug off…]


Because desire won’t shrug off,
and the heart begins to eat its stores
its substance—slowly, at first, and
sparingly—
                        (but nothing’s left to lose so it is downed)

            We have a thing here called hunger
A feeling and an ache, want of want.

You could try it sometime if you like.

Sun drinks down its own day.
Dusk takes us to task.
Hath drunk so deep

You could be forgiven for not knowing.
You could be forgiven for a lot of things.

Hannah Sanghee Park

#poetry  

Flamingos take refuge in a bathroom at Miami-Metro Zoo, Sept. 14, 1999 as tropical-storm force winds from Hurricane Floyd approached the Miami area.

(via filthiestlaugh)

Twilight

rabbit-light:



There’s a black bear
in the apple tree
and he won’t come down.
I can hear him panting,
like an athlete.
I can smell the stink
of his body.

Come down, black bear.
Can you hear me?

The mind is the most interesting thing to me;
like the sudden death of the sun,
it seems implausible that darkness will swallow it
or that anything is lost forever there,
like a black bear in a fruit tree,
gulping up sour apples
with dry sucking sounds,

or like us at the pier, somber and tired,
making food from sunlight,
you saying a word, me saying a word, trying hard,
though things were disintegrating.
Still, I wanted you,
your lips on my neck,
your postmodern sexuality.
Forlorn and anonymous:
I didn’t want to be that. I could hear
the great barking monsters of the lower waters
calling me forward.

You see, my mind takes me far,
but my heart dreams of return.
Black bear,
with pale-pink tongue
at the center of his face,
is turning his head,
like the face of Christ from life.
Shaking the apple boughs,
he is stronger than I am
and seems so free of passion—
no fear, no pain, no tenderness. I want to be that.

Come down, black bear,
I want to learn the faith of the indifferent.

Henri Cole

#poetry  

And why get angry at Helen?
As if she singlehandedly destroyed those
multitudes of men.
As if she all alone
made this wound in us.

Spoken by Klytaimestra in Aiskhylos’s Agamemnon, translated by Anne Carson.  (via filthiestlaugh)

(via filthiestlaugh)

#me  #anne carson  

John William Waterhouse - The Soul of the Rose

(via filthiestlaugh)

#art  #painting  

aizea:

Hope Gangloff

#art