“You and I know each other in our bones,”— Kurt Vonnegut, from a letter to Nanny Vonnegut wr. c. January 1973 (via violentwavesofemotion)
(via soracities)
When you look at him you see dark night
opening, giving way to dawn.
Ibn Said al-Maghribi (Alcalá la Real, 1213–Tunis, 1274), translated from the Arabic by
Cola Franzen
in: “Poems for the Millenium. Book of North African Literature”, edited by Pierre Joris and Habib Tengour
(via finita–la–commedia)
in: “Poems for the Millenium. Book of North African Literature”, edited by Pierre Joris and Habib Tengour
(via finita–la–commedia)
(via soracities)
, translated from the Arabic by
Cola Franzen
in: “Poems for the Millenium. Book of North African Literature”, edited by Pierre Joris and Habib Tengour (via finita–la–commedia)
(via soracities)){kind=link}
when plath said “it seems that always in august i am more aware of the rain,”
(via sunsounds)
You’re still in love with him.
Look at the way your eyes turn to roses
at the mention of his name — you’re skin and bones,
blooming into a garden.– Danielle Tremblay, [SUMMER], found in Citrus
(Source: payhip.com, via wildfairy)
Have you seen the phosphorescence in August?
You will be that wild light to someone who loves you.
Liv Walton, from “You Will Feel A Flash of Orange,” published c. April 2019 (via sapphoisms)
(via sunsounds)
(via sunsounds)){kind=link}
you move & the wind moves with you, something honey, something bruised— in the way you chew on your bottom lip. nervous habit; delayed reaction. how in summer the world feels like a mirage of itself. hands that chain themselves to anything that refuses to let go: a leech, or brown muck. your teeth (grazing) the inside of my elbow. something damn frustrating about the way you give yourself up (to anything that’s foolish enough to take you) i.e the sea, the coast, where your shoulders meet, the leylines of your veins. & picture me humbly, please. picture me in evenings & earthly tones, only. & do not hold your breath when i go, slip. out the back door—silhouetted feline; precipitous, or better yet. picture (you), standing barefoot in the tall grass, picture the curve of your neck in malnourished light, & a puncture wound, in the now negative (space) you found me in: a flower bed emptied; the sun bleached out. — oh all i ever wanted / was a life in your shape // mitski
What fields are as fragrant as your hands?
Rainer Maria Rilke, tr. by Paul Weinfield, from “What Fields are as Fragrant as your Hands?,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)
(via violentwavesofemotion)
(via sunsounds)
(via sunsounds)){kind=link}
“I always have such need to merely talk to you. Even when I have nothing to talk about – with you I just seem to go right ahead and sort of invent it. I invent it for you. Because I never seem to run out of tenderness for you and because I need to feel you near. Excuse the bad writing and excuse the emotional overflow. What I mean to say, perhaps, is that, in a way, I am never empty of you; not for a moment, an instant, a single second.”— Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West
(via loveuprising)
Find the poets, my friend said.
They will not speak of the things you and I speak about.
They will not speak of economic integration
or fiscal consolidation.
They could not tell you anything
about the burden of adjustment.But they could sit you down
and tell you how poems are born in silence
and sometimes, in moments of great noise;
of how they arrive like rain,
unexpectedly cracking open the sky.
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