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March 13 2013

By Cia Rinne.

From the book Notes for Soloists (download this book for free).

Reposted byNuuskamuikkunenMoonTideoopsiakkrolfasolekhexxekajakkowalikabsinthicFlypnsiriusminervaseppdeppzooziaIhezaltohuundwabohubuffyrulezno-longer-korepieszczotyshestolethemoonC10H12N2OwojtekjlobotomyjaerkmonimichburakotkaReisagainstindivisualistdingensbeenoisetinexgosialaparix

March 06 2013

e. e. cummings
Reposted bynobodyISperfectpannakiessiriusminervakusiol
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March 04 2013

She wanders in the April woods,
That glisten with the fallen shower;
She leans her face against the buds,
She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.
She feels the ferment of the hour:
She broodeth when the ringdove broods;
The sun and flying clouds have power
Upon her cheek and changing moods.
She cannot think she is alone,
As o’er her senses warmly steal
Floods of unrest she fears to own,
And almost dreads to feel.

Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone;
The joy she fear’d is at her side,
Spring’s blushing secret now is known.
The primrose and its mates have flown,
The thrush’s ringing note hath died;
But glancing eye and glowing tone
Fall on her from her god, her guide.
She knows not, asks not, what the goal,
She only feels she moves towards bliss,
And yields her pure unquestioning soul
To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways,
Though all fond fancy finds there now
To mind of spring or summer days,
Are sodden trunk and songless bough.
The past sits widow’d on her brow,
Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,
To walls that house a hollow vow,
To hearth where love hath ceas’d to blaze:
Watches the clammy twilight wane,
With grief too fix’d for woe or tear;
And, with her forehead ’gainst the pane,
Envies the dying year.

Agatha by Alfred Austin

March 02 2013

I meant to do my work to-day-
But a brown bird sang in the apple-tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.

And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand-
So what could I do but laugh and go?

Richard Le Gallienne, I Meant to Do My Work To-Day
Reposted bywolfboyssiriusminervacptkathastrofe
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond, e.e. cummings
Reposted bydazzlingwolfboysmuviellpathetic8lexxie

February 28 2013

January 29, 1845: Edgar Allan Poe’s ”The Raven” is published.

Edgar Allan Poe’s most famous poem was published toward the end of his life - he died in 1849 of mysterious causes after suffering for years in poverty and alcoholism, particularly after the death of his wife, Virginia. As Poe was writing “The Raven”, Virginia was dying of tuberculosis, which lent a personal touch to the poem’s subject matter (and also to that of some of Poe’s other poems). The titular raven, Poe wrote, was a symbol of “Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance”. The poem itself is full of allusions, from the “bust of Pallas” to “Night’s Plutonian shore” to Seraphim and the balm of Gilead.

“The Raven” was first published in the Evening Mirror, and then in February of 1845 in The American Review under the name “Quarles”. It was an immediate hit among both critics and casual readers, although one notable non-fan of the poem was Ralph Waldo Emerson, an important figure in the Transcendentalist movement of American literature - a movement Poe deeply disliked. Of “The Raven”, Emerson commented ”I see nothing in it”. The poem also turned Poe into a well-known and well-respected author, but unfortunately, he remained destitute for the rest of his life; of this sad set of circumstances he wrote (in a letter to Frederick W. Thomas) in May of 1845:

I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life – except in hope, which is by no means bankable.

Illustrations by Gustave Doré.

Time is a good place to travel
Reposted bywordsofwisdombyedagrallanpoeune-raconteuseinvitisuperfluigrouchywerthermoonlitskyDuWeldenvardenmrsantaresanyonesghosttyprzykrytypiekusiolkobzala

February 27 2013

Silence by Thomas Hood

February 22 2013

e.e. cummings
Reposted byno-longer-koreSyvemuviellWecanbeheroeslexxiegrawklasyimmuffkusiolhitomibradypusinvitisuperfluisiriusminervaabracadabraateknolovesongseksgrupowylajpromyczek

February 20 2013

Reposted bypracticaljokesorry-mrs-fillyjonkprzytulankithosecookiesaremineMitreSquareMurdermnrs

February 09 2013

Joan Bauer, Almost Home.
Reposted fromcpt cpt

January 30 2013

nobody can save you but
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
to make you submit, quit and/or die quietly

nobody can save you but
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don't, don't, don't.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
do you want to experience
death before death?

nobody can save you but
and you're worth saving.
it's a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it.

think about it.

nobody but you by Charles Bukowski
Reposted byyanahyagienProsahtediousuncleulvarmuvielllexxieaudioairRacuchcptPiilulunoiredelusionalrattyprzykrytypiemyst3r1oustove

January 26 2013

Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.

Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

Raymond Carver, Rain.
Reposted byflamendrmuvielllexxieunenlaaakso

January 25 2013

Wole Soyinka, Death and the King’s Horseman
Reposted byimmuffno-longer-koreexistentialviva-salvadoreherpermissiondowntherabbithole

January 22 2013

Animula, T. S. Eliot
Reposted byMyBlackWingssiriusminervamydarlingangelcastiel
Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame, Charles Bukowski
Reposted byScatty92muviellulvarmadialeneknicKnackpeudechance3kusiolno-longer-koreC10H12N2O

January 13 2013

Job Requirements: A Supervillain’s Advice by Jeannine Hall Gailey.
Reposted byno-longer-korenerdanelarabus

December 31 2012

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Visual poetry by Anatol Knotek

The Girl and Her Books
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December 30 2012

Poets say science takes away from the beauty of the stars—mere globs of gas atoms. Nothing is ‘mere’. I too can see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more? The vastness of the heavens stretches my imagination—stuck on this carousel my little eye can catch one-million-year-old light. A vast pattern—of which I am a part… What is the pattern or the meaning or the why? It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little more about it. For far more marvelous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined it. Why do the poets of the present not speak of it? What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent?
The Feynman Lectures on Physics, Richard P. Feynman
Reposted bysiriusminervamyname

December 29 2012

Icarus by Rebecca Baggett.
Reposted bySeelmaanyonesghostmaja95MoonTidemynamedaszka
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