Zu Nina

Diary of the irreconcilably melancholic girl.

[darlinngninawrites]

Hello! You found me 😊

I am a writer of sorts. Meaning I know how to convey with words that which lives inside me. My emotions, my longings, my yearnings. I write because it is so much sometimes. I write because I overflow. At times I even fancy myself a poet. If you find these, my words and longings please know that I am writing because I have loved and have loved immensely. Go forth, you also and give your love wherever you can. Do not resist, do not hold back, give without measure, give without constraints. It is dire right now. The well is drying, it needs refilling.

[havingapoemwithyou]

God by Langston Hughes

[darlinngninawrites]

June 7, 1984 -Berlin The Cancer Journals, Audre Lorde

[missmagoo]

compensation, zeinabu irene davis

[darlinngninawrites]

I like the night when the lights are out in the house. When silence and stillness engulf. The neighbors sleep, the critters sing, my mind breathes. All is clearer and serene.

[nobrashfestivity]

Unknown, Halley's Comet: Head, 1910

Mount Wilson Observatory

[darlinngninawrites]

One Heart- Franz Wright. From the book Walking to Martha's Vineyard (Poems by Franz Wright, 2008)

[godsopenwound]

Georges Bataille, Erotism: Death & Sensuality

[vexheart]

Land you have to kill for is not yours. Land you have to die for is

[sjowgren-deactivated20240728]

some of my favorite tiny love stories

[sjowgren-deactivated20240728]

update:

(from nyt’s modern love column)

[allsadnshit]

“Growing Around Grief”

Lois Tonkin, 1996

[blackture]

“this is precisely the time when artists go to work. there’s no time for despair, no place for self pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. we speak, we write, we do languages. this is how civilizations heal.”

- toni morrison

[darlinngninawrites]

For Professor Refaat Alareer

The writers are important because they will preserve the myriad occurrences of the seemingly meaningless things around them. They will write of the children, the vendors, the elders, the disabled, the artists, the weeping, the tortured. They will write of love and resistance and hugs and traditions. They will document even the falling of a leaf announcing a change of season, the bending of a branch sustaining a bird that cries out. They will write of hope when hope seems nonexistent.

[lifeinpoetry]

Free Palestine Reading List

Haymarket Books: Free Ebooks for a Free Palestine!

Verso Books: Solidarity with Palestine: Free Resources and Further Reading

OR Books: THE FREE PALESTINE READING LIST

City Lights Books: Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear by Mosab Abu Toha

[lifeinpoetry]

Guernica: Voices on Palestine

[lifeinpoetry]

Free Palestine Reading List for November 29 – December 5 – Publishers for Palestine

[nevver]

[nevver]

The lights are up, John Thatcher

[darlinngninawrites]

A poem for fall

Autumnal Sundays bring nostalgia beneath the winds. East bound, chill filled with melancholy. Rose-tinted clouds adorn the atmosphere where languishing sunsets announce impending torments. The silent moon ushers in reflections of distant worlds long before darkness engulfs. The weeping trees are swollen with the murmurs of lovers muttered at their roots. Their parting leaves crushed on the ground like blisters whose drippings fall through deathly twigs.

There is a feeling all around of hope that has fallen without a sound. The imminent halt of a cycle which claimed unaccompanied souls through its tunnels. And the body anticipates the burning – the ritual of ridding the flesh of all unwanted guests.The titaness of dawn scatters new life upon mortals under a withering sky. Let us beg mercy of her supple, tender hands.

It is fall, the hours of morning go by so quickly and the prelude of the afternoon finds me suspended in a longing - inside the cold, darkened cavity I have dug for myself eluding tremors. I swing my hand into the wind wishing to appease this yearning – a violent swoosh returns it empty. Outside the names of past lovers swirl in the air interspersed in the dying summer sky. It will be hard exhaling through the memories,  mother warns inhaled grief is never released.

And I am at a standstill, awaiting the bounty of all my prayers. My thoughts aligned at the periphery of fading fears. Lay my rotting bones amongst the trembling wetlands, between the chanting sycamores. Lower my head between the dampened shrubs before rains enfold. Autumn comes not with color but with the washing of tones which have died along the way. This is what is left. This is what remains. Soon ubiquitous winter nothingness will reign.

[darlinngninawrites]

Everywhere feels crowded, - with things, sounds, smells, bodies, voices and need. That we could by the whisper of a word alleviate this world’s pain, we would also then pull from under the rulers' feet, the long, golden tapestry that binds them. We would then pull back the curtain from where all suffering is crafted.