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theparisreview:

we watch the red birds in the morningwe hope for the quietdaytime togetherthe year turns into air
but we are together in the whole nightwith the sun still going awayand the yearcoming back
—W. S. Merwin, from “The Solstice.” Art: Marlon Wobst.

theparisreview:

we watch the red birds in the morning
we hope for the quiet
daytime together
the year turns into air

but we are together in the whole night
with the sun still going away
and the year
coming back

W. S. Merwin, from “The Solstice.” Art: Marlon Wobst.

I approach the work as though, in truth, I’m nothing and the words are everything.
Some of us
make our own light: a silver leaf
like a path no one can use, a shallow
lake of silver in the darkness under the great maples.
– Louise Glück, from “Lamium” (via mitochondria)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

Craft protects one from facing those endless expanding realities of deterioration and responsibility.
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in.
From Song by Adrienne Rich (via hush-syrup)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

Death comes to me again, a girl
in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.
It’s not so terrible she tells me,
not like you think, all darkness
and silence. There are wind chimes
and the smell of lemons, some days
it rains, but more often the air is dry
and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase
built from hair and bone and listen
to the voices of the living. I like it,
she says, shaking the dust from her hair,
especially when they fight, and when they sing.
Death Comes to Me Again, A Girl by Dorianne Laux (via hush-syrup)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
and the browns gone gray
and yellow
a terrible amber.
In the cold streets
your warm body.
In whatever room
your warm body.
Among all the people
your absence
the people who are always
not you.
From Rain by Jack Gilbert (via hush-syrup)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

theparisreview:

GRAMMAR
What is rigid has its place,a dimming to come back to.What’s right is mutable.
Station to depart from, smokyplatform in the tiny hours.Condensation gathered on the clock.Pull the collar close. Leave conversationwatchful by the gate.
Gray as it is, the structure’s bulkremains for acres into the fog.
—Melanie Rehak, from “Self-Portrait as the Liberal Arts.”Photography: Angex Lin.

theparisreview:

GRAMMAR

What is rigid has its place,
a dimming to come back to.
What’s right is mutable.

Station to depart from, smoky
platform in the tiny hours.
Condensation gathered on the clock.
Pull the collar close. Leave conversation
watchful by the gate.

Gray as it is, the structure’s bulk
remains for acres into the fog.

Melanie Rehak, from “Self-Portrait as the Liberal Arts.”
Photography: Angex Lin.

Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.
– Dinah Craik, A Life for a Life (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
I will dream … not to mend any outer meaning,
but to renovate my abandoned interior from the trace
of emotional drought. I have memorized all of my heart,
like the back of my hand: it’s no longer meddlesome
and spoiled. One aspirin suffices to soften
and tranquilize it. As if it were my stranger neighbor.
I am not subject to its whim and women. The heart
rusts like iron and doesn’t moan, yearn for, or become
mad over the first tender licentious rain,
it doesn’t ring from drought like August grass.
As if my heart were austere, or extraneous
to me like the “like” in a simile.
When the heart’s water dries up, the aesthetic
is more abstract, and emotions wrap themselves
in coats, virginity, and talent
– Mahmoud Darwish, from “Mural” in If I Were Another. Farrar Straus Giroux, 2009 (transl. by Fady Joudah)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

The night is windless.
Empty, the roadway’s trail.
I wanted to speak,
But to whom, to whom?
– Arvid Mörne, from “The Night Is Windless” in Nordic Voices in Print (translated by David McDuff)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

thewanderingcollective:

Long Rock Beach, Cornwall in December 
35mm by Georgiana

thewanderingcollective:

Long Rock Beach, Cornwall in December 

35mm by Georgiana

(via earthmusic)

The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.
– Georges Bataille (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
theparisreview:

we watch the red birds in the morningwe hope for the quietdaytime togetherthe year turns into air
but we are together in the whole nightwith the sun still going awayand the yearcoming back
—W. S. Merwin, from “The Solstice.” Art: Marlon Wobst.

theparisreview:

we watch the red birds in the morning
we hope for the quiet
daytime together
the year turns into air

but we are together in the whole night
with the sun still going away
and the year
coming back

W. S. Merwin, from “The Solstice.” Art: Marlon Wobst.

I approach the work as though, in truth, I’m nothing and the words are everything.
Some of us
make our own light: a silver leaf
like a path no one can use, a shallow
lake of silver in the darkness under the great maples.
– Louise Glück, from “Lamium” (via mitochondria)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

Craft protects one from facing those endless expanding realities of deterioration and responsibility.
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in.
From Song by Adrienne Rich (via hush-syrup)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

Death comes to me again, a girl
in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.
It’s not so terrible she tells me,
not like you think, all darkness
and silence. There are wind chimes
and the smell of lemons, some days
it rains, but more often the air is dry
and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase
built from hair and bone and listen
to the voices of the living. I like it,
she says, shaking the dust from her hair,
especially when they fight, and when they sing.
Death Comes to Me Again, A Girl by Dorianne Laux (via hush-syrup)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
and the browns gone gray
and yellow
a terrible amber.
In the cold streets
your warm body.
In whatever room
your warm body.
Among all the people
your absence
the people who are always
not you.
From Rain by Jack Gilbert (via hush-syrup)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

theparisreview:

GRAMMAR
What is rigid has its place,a dimming to come back to.What’s right is mutable.
Station to depart from, smokyplatform in the tiny hours.Condensation gathered on the clock.Pull the collar close. Leave conversationwatchful by the gate.
Gray as it is, the structure’s bulkremains for acres into the fog.
—Melanie Rehak, from “Self-Portrait as the Liberal Arts.”Photography: Angex Lin.

theparisreview:

GRAMMAR

What is rigid has its place,
a dimming to come back to.
What’s right is mutable.

Station to depart from, smoky
platform in the tiny hours.
Condensation gathered on the clock.
Pull the collar close. Leave conversation
watchful by the gate.

Gray as it is, the structure’s bulk
remains for acres into the fog.

Melanie Rehak, from “Self-Portrait as the Liberal Arts.”
Photography: Angex Lin.

Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.
– Dinah Craik, A Life for a Life (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
I will dream … not to mend any outer meaning,
but to renovate my abandoned interior from the trace
of emotional drought. I have memorized all of my heart,
like the back of my hand: it’s no longer meddlesome
and spoiled. One aspirin suffices to soften
and tranquilize it. As if it were my stranger neighbor.
I am not subject to its whim and women. The heart
rusts like iron and doesn’t moan, yearn for, or become
mad over the first tender licentious rain,
it doesn’t ring from drought like August grass.
As if my heart were austere, or extraneous
to me like the “like” in a simile.
When the heart’s water dries up, the aesthetic
is more abstract, and emotions wrap themselves
in coats, virginity, and talent
– Mahmoud Darwish, from “Mural” in If I Were Another. Farrar Straus Giroux, 2009 (transl. by Fady Joudah)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

The night is windless.
Empty, the roadway’s trail.
I wanted to speak,
But to whom, to whom?
– Arvid Mörne, from “The Night Is Windless” in Nordic Voices in Print (translated by David McDuff)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

thewanderingcollective:

Long Rock Beach, Cornwall in December 
35mm by Georgiana

thewanderingcollective:

Long Rock Beach, Cornwall in December 

35mm by Georgiana

(via earthmusic)

The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.
– Georges Bataille (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
"I approach the work as though, in truth, I’m nothing and the words are everything."
"Some of us
make our own light: a silver leaf
like a path no one can use, a shallow
lake of silver in the darkness under the great maples."
"Craft protects one from facing those endless expanding realities of deterioration and responsibility."
"You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in."
"Death comes to me again, a girl
in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.
It’s not so terrible she tells me,
not like you think, all darkness
and silence. There are wind chimes
and the smell of lemons, some days
it rains, but more often the air is dry
and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase
built from hair and bone and listen
to the voices of the living. I like it,
she says, shaking the dust from her hair,
especially when they fight, and when they sing."
"Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
and the browns gone gray
and yellow
a terrible amber.
In the cold streets
your warm body.
In whatever room
your warm body.
Among all the people
your absence
the people who are always
not you."
"Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away."
"I will dream … not to mend any outer meaning,
but to renovate my abandoned interior from the trace
of emotional drought. I have memorized all of my heart,
like the back of my hand: it’s no longer meddlesome
and spoiled. One aspirin suffices to soften
and tranquilize it. As if it were my stranger neighbor.
I am not subject to its whim and women. The heart
rusts like iron and doesn’t moan, yearn for, or become
mad over the first tender licentious rain,
it doesn’t ring from drought like August grass.
As if my heart were austere, or extraneous
to me like the “like” in a simile.
When the heart’s water dries up, the aesthetic
is more abstract, and emotions wrap themselves
in coats, virginity, and talent"
"The night is windless.
Empty, the roadway’s trail.
I wanted to speak,
But to whom, to whom?"
"The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth."

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