.

[xiewenhao1013]

[jeusussavearmyveteran1205]

[apoemaday]

The Wild Iris

by Louise Glück

At the end of my suffering there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting. Then nothing. The weak sun flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive as consciousness buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being a soul and unable to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth bending a little. And what I took to be birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember passage from the other world I tell you I could speak again: whatever returns from oblivion returns to find a voice:

from the center of my life came a great fountain, deep blue shadows on azure seawater.

[doubledepressowithtwobrownsugars]

“‏ما كان مقدرا لك سيأتيك ولو كان بين جبلين

What is meant for you, will reach you even if it is beneath two mountains.

وما لم يكن مقدرا لك لن يأتيك ولو كان بين شفتيك
 And what isn’t meant for you, won’t reach you even if it is between your two lips.”

[llovinghome]

[firstclassmovies]

THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES (1969). Sergei Parajanov directs this lush Soviet biography based on the life of Armenian poet Sayat Nova.

[thenecromerchantsdebt]

[historiyah]

Eye idol

Period: Middle Uruk

Date: ca. 3700-3500 B.C.

Geography: Syria, Tell Brak

Medium: Gypsum, alabaster

Dimensions: 2 7/8 x 2 x ¼ in. (7.3 x 5.2 x 0.7 cm)

Classification: Stone

[brrooooke-deactivated20180327]

[brrooooke-deactivated20180327]

[archive-94]

[artist-serusier]

The Seat at Poldu Sunset via Paul Serusier

Medium: oil on canvas

[shinji--moon-deactivated2017123]

We are still wearing our forest colors, a grove of light playing off shadow printed on this tree shirt. We ask, if politely, whether we care enough to withstand it, whether we are still welcome: tiny saplings, fresh to this glade and these pollen bearers. We buzzing because we arrived here having already taken root; our futuristic hum the same insect shuffle and tangled antennae. See, this one carries a leaf to the hive. This one has wings folded, stripes. This one, of all of us, to fly.

Mark Gurarie, from Sentimental Animals (via shinji--moon)

[personalgremlin]

this makes me want to cry

[0019029108320]

just submitted my last essay for university !! !!!! !!!!!

[loverofbeauty]

AFTER PARADISE . Don’t run any more. Quiet. How softly it rains On the roofs of the city. How perfect All things are. Now, for the two of you Waking up in a royal bed by a garret window. For a man and a woman. For one plant divided Into masculine and feminine which longed for each other. Yes, this is my gift to you. Above ashes On a bitter, bitter earth. Above the subterranean Echo of clamorings and vows. So that now at dawn You must be attentive: the tilt of a head, A hand with a comb, two faces in a mirror Are only forever once, even if unremembered, So that you watch what it is, though it fades away, And are grateful every moment for your being. Let that little park with greenish marble busts In the pearl-gray light, under a summer drizzle, Remain as it was when you opened the gate. And the street of tall peeling porticos Which this love of yours suddenly transformed.

*

Czeslaw Milosz

(via graceandcompany)

[dappledwithshadow]

Black Venus on Blue Background, Pierre Boncampain, s.d.

[lifeinpoetry]

To me I am I am not to me not I walk with this hollowness I walk with this blooming

Zubair Ahmed, from “I Eat Breakfast to Begin the Day,” published in Poetry (via lifeinpoetry)