"Poems are not written...", Andrey Voznesensky (translated by metamorphesque)
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@dankaura
"Poems are not written...", Andrey Voznesensky (translated by metamorphesque)
desired by many
taken by none
understood by few
guided by One
hardened by nature
softened by love
as so below
so as above
— merry meet, merry part, & merry meet again
Never compete
never compare
always content
always aware.
Brief Poems, Vera Pavlova
There are still places in which you can pour yourself without any purpose nor cause nor intention nor plan and that in itself is an ignition for a strange sort of grace that extends beyond circumstance.
It’s something of a recurrent renaissance to romanticize - if not capitalize on - the ways in which we cope with guilt, shame, despair, dejection, etc.
I talk often with colleagues how we’re living in a time that may as well be considered a historic pinnacle. What if archeologists hundreds of years in the future regarded us in the same light we regard the world’s pyramids, Tesla’s coil, and pre-colonial medicine?
I used to be in awe of historic renaissances, but from a place of wishing to be there, not here; when there may be some brown-eyed trauma-stricken bookworm aching for the current one we reside in 300 years in the future.
“Come over, she’s cooking tonight,”
– a love letter
Blaming others for my baggage is akin to yelling at someone because I have this heavy luggage of unread letters addressed solely to me. Now I can understand why it’s said to carry oneself with grace. I can acknowledge that slow, individually curated pace that’s said to come with opening oneself up.
some call it antiquing others call it time traveling
some call it history others call it myth
some call it prayer others call it manifestation
some call it a pattern others call it a prophecy
When I was younger I collected things I can hold
Now that I’m getting older I find myself collecting more things that I can’t like
Stories about childhood
Sunlight
Jokes over coffee
Presence
Observing love being exchanged
Catch-up conversations
Time for being unproductive
Time for being hella productive
Discipline
Smiles, waves, and bows
fyodor dostoevsky (the brothers karamazov), charles bukowski (a vote for the gentle light)
czesław miłosz, from the poem "hope"
i imagine the tower of babel to be more of a multi subdivision hotel with gated accesses to secret buildings that are somehow both on and off site, rather than like, the tower of pisa
arithmetic has an incredible sense of humor.
Japan trip, 2023
A small fraction
2/2
Japan trip, 2023
A small fraction
1/2
The reconciliation between imagination and reality
Daydreaming about houses overgrown with climbing plants