[artcompilations]

hi ! this is my archive of web weaving posts tagged by themes.

inbox closed. if you're looking for a particular post or theme, please use the search or here's the tags list . / main @mossyshadows, get in touch there if you need any triggers tagged etc, just please don't ask me to find posts on a theme for you!

[sailermoon]

Aeschylus, The Oresteia / Anne Carson, H of H Playbook / Hadestown, Road to Hell (Reprise) / John Darnielle, Wolf in White Van / Richard Siken, The Worm King’s Lullaby

[yu-sigao]

You’re going to die in your best friend’s arms. And you play along because it’s funny, because it’s written down, you’ve memorized it, it’s all you know.

Richard Siken, “Planet of Love”

You could tell your tale differently this time, I suppose. But you won’t. Your name will always be Ivan Nikolayevich. You will always go into that tent. You will see her scar, below her eye,  and  wonder where  she  got  it.  You  will  always be amazed at how one woman can have so much black hair. You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast. You will always run away with her. You will always lose her. You will always be a fool. You will always be dead, in a city of ice, snow falling into your ear. You have already done all of this and will do it again. I am only here to make sure it happens.

Catherynne M. Valente, “Deathless”

[bluebeardsbride-deactivated2021]

Red is at the end of black.

— Saeed Jones, “Boy Found Inside A Wolf” Prelude to Bruise

(Blackness isn’t black. It is the last degree of reds. The secret blood of reds.)

— Hélène Cixous, “Bathsheba or the Interior Bible” (translated from the French by Catherine A.F. MacGillivray)

When Homer mentions blood, blood is black.


—  Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

“Have you seen blood in the moonlight, Will? It appears quite black.”

—  Thomas Harris, Red Dragon

[yvain]

red-black, like the last, deepest drop of heart’s blood, brought to light only by violent death.

— Robin McKinley, Deerskin

[cor-ardens-archive]

robert icke, the oresteia | bessel van der kolk, the body keeps the score | agnes obel, it’s happening again | sir baby girl, the same night on repeat

[tallahasseemp3]

oresteia, robert icke / from the nebraska plant, the mountain goats / jayme ringleb, from “a little learning” / black sails / blue nights, joan didion / pentimento definition / myers’ psychology for the ap® course, c. nathan dewall and david meyers / pink, sylvie baumgartel / perforated heart, eric bogosian

[firstfullmoon]

happy holidays! do you have any poems about the new year/end of the year? xx

happy holidays may the end of this year bring you relief and 2026 be everything you wish for 🤍

“Advent” by Heather Christle

“i am running into a new year” by Lucille Clifton

“Burning the Old Year” by Naomi Shihab Nye

“Prayer for the New Year” by Rhiannon McGavin

“Resolution #1,003” by June Jordan

“For the New Year, 1981” by Denise Levertov

“On Exiting Universitätsspital Zürich, New Year’s Eve 2015” by Charif Shanahan

“Rain, New Year’s Eve” by Maggie Smith

“New Year’s Eve At The Santa Fe Hotel, Fresno, California” by Larry Levis

“New Year’s Day” by Audre Lorde

“For Janet, at the New Year” by Ellen Bass

“New Year” by Kate Baer

“New Year’s Day” by Kim Addonizio

[artcompilations]

...there is a veil of other images that settles on her image and blurs it, a weight of memories that keep me from seeing her as a person seen for the first time, other people’s memories suspended like the smoke under the lamps.

- Italo Calvino, 'If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler’ trans. William Weaver

How many times do our words become cells? How do we remove those splinters of memory and remain ourselves?”

- Richard Jackson, ‘Belief’ Out of Place

- Jonas Mekas, ‘As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty’ (2000)

I think people would be happier if they admitted things more often. In a sense we are all prisoners of some memory, or fear, or disappointment—we are all defined by something we can’t change.

- Simon Van Booy, The Illusion of Separateness

Once we were happy, we had no memories.

- Louise Glück, Marathon

[ardor-mohr]

“What cannot be said  will be wept.”

— Sappho, Fragments (ca. early 6th century BC)

“What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak….It was born in the moments when we accumulated silent things within us.”

— Gaston Bachelard, Water and Dreams (1942) 

“Words that come from the heart are never spoken, they get caught in the throat and can only be read in ones’s eyes.”

— José Saramago, The Gospel According To Jesus Christ (1991)

[soracities]

“I don’t remember how to say home in my first language, or lonely,, or light I remember only delam barat tang shodeh, I miss you, and shab bekheir, goodnight.”

Kaveh Akbar, ‘Do You Speak Persian?’

“I can’t speak my own language - Iesu, All those good words; And I outside them.”

R.S. Thomas, ‘Welsh’

“It’s an ancient story from yesterday evening called “Patterns of Love in Peoples of Diaspora,” called “Loss of the Homeplace and the Defilement of the Beloved,” called “I Want to Sing but I Don’t Know Any Songs”.”

Li-Young Lee, ‘Immigrant Blues’

“The fact that I am writing to you in English already falsifies what I wanted to tell you. My subject: how to explain to you that I don’t belong to English though I belong nowhere else.”

Gustavo Pérez Firmat, Bilingual Blues

[letterful]

the blessing of lovelessness—

dunya mikhail / wisława szymborska / marina tsvetaeva / margaret atwood

[sheherazade-deactivated20201117]

ross gay / antoine de saint-exupery / gilgamesh: a retelling by herbert mason

[snailmailthings]

A BLURRED LOVE

Into One Another III, To PPP,  Berlinde De Bruyckere (2010) / Hysterics of Love, Eric Fischl (1997) / We Are All Flesh, Berlinde De Bruyckere (2009)

[sapphothetic-moved]

salma deera / richard siken / tumblr

[texaschainsawmascara]

[texaschainsawmascara]

[28121997-deactivated20250923]

Dead Famous: An Unexpected History of Celebrity from Bronze Age to Silver Screen by Greg Jenner

[artcompilations]

personally fave tag on this blog is the ‘tag later’ tag because like . It’s the indescribable ache in the heart

[soracities]

“A week [after Sven’s funeral], I’m cooking fish on a wood fire outside and my son, Yves, brings me a glass of wine to drink and holds a bowl of olives. It’s getting dark and my eyes are sore from the smoke, so I feel for a couple with my fingers without looking, and pop one into my mouth. As I spit out the stone and try to define the flavour–sharp, bitter-black, Greek–a thought crosses my mind: From now on I taste olives for Sven too.”

John Berger, ‘Et in Arcadia Ego’, Confabulations

“The woman sets the table. She watches me beat the eggs. I scramble them in a saucepan, as my now-dead friend taught me; they stand deeper and cook softer, he said. I take our plated, spoon eggs on them, we sit and eat.”

Andre Dubus, “On Charon’s Wharf”, Broken Vessels

“When a dead tree falls in a forest it often falls into the arms of a living tree. The dead, thus embraced, rasp in wind, slowly carving a niche in the living branch, shearing away the rough outer flesh, revealing the pinkish, yellowish, feverish inner bark. For years the dead tree rubs its fallen body against the living, building its dead music, making its raw mark, wearing the tough bough down as it moans and bends, the deep rosined bow sound of the living shouldering the dead.”

Dorianne Laux, “Cello”