Goodbye, Goodbye

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Frost-Windows (by elliptical)

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Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.

"The Uses of Sorrow (In my sleep I dreamed this poem),” Mary Oliver

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Ithaca in the Wintertime (by elliptical)

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Who expects the thousandth overheard whisper to blow into breezes slam the doors and violate the habitual order of papers forsees how it spins into a force a hurricane that shakes loose the length and depth of the solid inner workings clatter like skeletons in their closets dishes tip from their shelves crash and then in the quiet aftermath of this small personal disaster a single ray of light sliced a line too bright to face a divide down the center of the house was it just a shift in the winded leaves a fallen branch between the house and the sun some swift repercussion hitting a dead end or turning a corner maybe it was a prod against the season's usual angles an unexpected equinox a sharper tilt in the axis at the core who knows who is to blame for a heated knife cuts to the quick like an instinct for dwelling on dread the seduction of that thin voice in the ear saying turn away from the full light of joy you turn away so many times you don't recognize the blade you have become

"House of Habit," Alice B. Fogel

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Dettifoss (by thecheekyscamp)

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You have broken my heart. Just as well. Now I am learning to rise above all that, learning the thin life, waking up simply to praise everything in this world that is strong and beautiful always — the trees, the rocks, the fields, the news from heaven, the laughter that comes back all the same. Just as well. Time to read books, rake the lawn in peace, sweep the floor, scour the faces of the pans, anything. And I have been so diligent it is almost over, I am growing myself as strong as rock, as a tree which, if I put my arms around it, does not lean away. It is a wonderful life. Comfortable. I read the papers. Maybe I will go on a cruise, maybe I will cross the entire ocean, more than once. Whatever you think, I have scarcely thought of you. Whatever you imagine, it never really happened. Only a few evenings of nonsense. Whatever you believe — dear one, dear one — do not believe this letter.

"Letter to ___________," Mary Oliver

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. (by Careless Edition)

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In my grief I created a new language for the loss of you, and stood like a sacrifice in open fields and hoped that God would hear how much I wanted you back, that my mourning looked like burned trees still standing on breathing stumps that this new language was terrible, and ruining and full of hope and I’ve heard that baby love isn’t half as full as other kinds but they’re wrong. There is a forest inside of me and all of the trees are standing to attention for you They’d all fall on your order, too, give the word. Maybe you’re rain, or maybe you’re necessary but you decide. I’ll say in this language, that only God and whales can understand that if you come back, please come back, you decide. If you want Mondays to be Saturdays now, if you want me to paint the sky black, if you need love like tap water, you decide. I will say your name like a hymn, I will say your name like every ‘please’ I’ve ever meant, I will love you till birds grow in my throat, just come back, please, you decide.

"Whale Song," Azra T

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Reynisdrangar seen from Reynisfjall, Iceland (by palli gestur)

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My idea for a class is you just sit in the classroom and read aloud until everyone is smiling, and if someone is not smiling you ask them why, and then you keep reading — it may take many different books — until they start smiling, too.

"Short Lecture in the Form of a Course Description", Mary Ruefle

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The Treehouse Factory (by Lola Li ✌)

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The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

Ernest Hemingway

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Bois du Bilioley. (by Alejandro Melero Carrillo)

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There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.

Nelson Mandela

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(by michel nguie)

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Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of. It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it. But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless: I am living. I remember you.

"What the Living Do," Marie Howe

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(by Lina Scheynius)