A Fallow Field @afallowfield-blog - Tumblr Blog

Yellow is the colour … Kansas, USA. by Pixeldan on Flickr.

Who am I, if not one who listens for words to stir from the silences they keep? Love is the ground note; we cannot do without it or the sorrow of its changes.

Peter Everwine, from “Aubade in Autumn,” The New Yorker (15 October 2007)

#peter everwine #poetry #poem

fripperiesandfobs

“Happiness” by Lucile ca. 1916

From Whitaker Auctions

#fashion #history #dresses

memoryslandscape-deactivated202

The things we look at keep changing: one day’s sun or another day’s rain; early poppies one day, late tomatoes another. As thougheach day was trying to say something, with a voice that isn’t coming from any throat.

Memory’s Landscape:

Rick Barot, closing lines to “Tacoma Lyric,” diode (vol. 5, no.1, Fall 20011)

#poetry #poem #rick barot

violentwavesofemotion-deactivat

And you – how long will you listen to these colours before you hear the language of light?

Frida Kahlo, from What The Water Gave Me: Self-Portrait With Monkey And Parrot (via violentwavesofemotion)

#frida kahlo #lit #colors

simena

catonhottinroof-deactivated2023

Volodymyr Orlovsky (1842 – 1914)

Storm clouds, 1884

#painting

foxmouth

Landscapes, 2015 | by Elias and Theresa Carlson

#photography

lunchboxpoems

WHERE WE ARE

i envy those who live in two places: new york, say, and london; wales and spain; l.a. and paris; hawaii and switzerland.

there is always the anticipation of the change, the chance that what is wrong is the result of where you are. i have always loved both the freshness of arriving and the relief of leaving. with two homes every move would be a homecoming. i am not even considering the weather, hot or cold, dry or wet: i am talking about hope.

GERALD LOCKLIN

#poetry #poem #Gerald locklin

You Loved A Woman Once

She told you of childhood summers, mayflies trembling beside the bridge of her nose, hunting frogs. Skinning them on a brick, the house smelling like their small, fried legs.

All she wanted was for you to carry her home in a canoe with paddles, life vests, a flare. You promised to teach her how to swim when she was in your arms.

Your own body, broken into so many times, became a clear lake for her to bathe in. Remember pulling the one tiny, suckering leech from below her neck, the pale collarbone Braille it left.

You said the boat was her shoulder in your mouth, even when you couldn’t bear her epaulets of freckles, even when nothing but a body would do and there was no body but her own.

Below her—lily pads, dragonflies, the worms dug up last summer and thrown from the dock to see fish rise in a boil—now all snapped raw in the frozen pond. And speaker,

coded “you"—what about the light straining through her dampened hair, will you catch it in your jaws? There’s the smell of paper on her skin and you pressing her body like a flower in a book.

Keetje Kuipers

#keetje kuipers #poetry #poem

wordsnquotes

My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.

T.S. Eliot, “The Waste Land”

#poetry #T.S. Eliot

memoryslandscape-deactivated202

Forgive me if I forget with the birdsong and the day’s last glow folding into the hands of the trees, forgive me the few syllables of the autumn crickets, the year’s last firefly winking like a penny in the shoulder’s weeds if I forget the hour, if I forget the day as the evening star pours out...

#poerry