Nº. 1 of  1148

A Poet Reflects

The mobile and the immobile flickering
In the area between is and was are leaves,
Leaves burnished in autumnal burnished trees

And leaves in whirlings in the gutters, whirlings
Around and away, resembling the presence of thought,
Resembling the presences of thoughts, as if,

In the end, in the whole psychology, the self,
The town, the weather, in a casual litter,
Together, said words of the world are the life of the world.

Wallace Stevens, from section XII of “An Ordinary Evening in New Haven,” The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens (Vintage, 1982)

I do believe in an everyday sort of magic—the inexplicable connectedness we sometimes experience with places, people, works of art and the like; the eerie appropriateness of moments of synchronicity; the whispered voice, the hidden presence, when we think we’re alone.

 Charles de Lint

(Source: jaegerjaques, via korraled)

Bernard Creely, Burnt Rose, 2014

Bernard Creely, Burnt Rose, 2014

(Source: splendiddisgrace)

The afternoons drone on, stagy and dazed.
Dog-day cicadas exhume themselves, telegraph
their terrible passions from tree to tree.
Lacewings take wing from the uncut grass—
in time with [the] orchestrated back and forth—
and summer’s last mow smells of red
wine or the first dark sex after
betrayal, then forgiveness.

Angela Shaw, closing lines to “Tango,’ from The Beginning of the Fields: Poems (Tupelo Press, 2009)

Julian Alden Weir, Autumn Rain, 1890

Julian Alden Weir, Autumn Rain, 1890

(Source: montanablackart)

fluttering-slips:

You with the Crack Running Through You

I can seep in, I can dry clear.

And yes it would still be there.
And no I couldn’t hold you forever.

But isn’t it drafty at night,

alone in that canyon
with the wind of the mind

dragging its debris—

I wanted to put
my mouth on you

and draw out whatever toxin …

—but I understand. There are limits
to love. Here is a flower

that needs no water.
It can grow anywhere,

nourished on nothing.
And yes.

 —Kim Addonizio, from Lucifer at the Starlite: Poems (W. W. Norton & Co., 2009)

(Source: rinabeana.com)

The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.

Elizabeth Bishop, from “Conversation,” The Complete Poems: 1927-1979 (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1983)

(Source: literarymiscellany)

metaphorformetaphor:

I confess I have grown tired of long
dreams that take me back to the point where they begin and I end,
without us ever meeting in the morning.

Mahmoud Darwish, “I did not dream,” A River Dies of Thirst (Archipelago Books, 2009)

Count Five

"Psychotic Reaction"

Psychotic Reaction LP (Digitally remastered)

davidkanigan:

Psychotherapist David Richo writes, “Our dark shadow can be called the cellar of our unexamined shame. Our positive shadow is an attic of our unclaimed valuables. Every person to whom we react with strong fear, desire, repulsion, or admiration is a twin of our own inner unacknowledged life. We have qualities, both positive and negative, that appear visibly in others, but are invisible in us and to us.”

—Christine Valters Paintner

(Source: makebelieveboutique.com, via korraled)

Nº. 1 of  1148