emma || 21 || arts

"maybe we should love ourselves so fiercely that when others see us they know exactly how it should be done"

[em-plode]

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[em-plode]

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[amphitheas]

Catherynne M. Valente, from The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making

[flowerytale]

Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to his brother Theo (Isleworth, Friday 3 November 1876)

[existential-celestial]

https://www.instagram.com/p/CB4a_qrhjnk/

ARTxLIT: j. p. berame X Francesco Hayez —

in June, a night that clings to my marrows —wet, quiet . bone silence & soft wanings—an ache that splits the being: part-heart part-head . collapse inside the atria of my own chest: i vibrate in the blood & dreams of me, oozing past layers of ontologies . turn a page of tender unweavings: my heart, a garden my heart, my own Gethsemane . enfold all in the humidity of thoughts & prayers; heavy atmosphere— . go lightly, therefore & breathe water.

j. p. berame , “June,” in this year: POEMS 2017 — Mary Magdalene as a Hermit by Francesco Hayez (1833)

[existential-celestial]

“…always if someone is weighed down he falls straight into the middle of God.”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, “The Letter from the Young Worker,” featured in Letters to a Young Poet

[luthienne]

Mahmoud Darwish, from Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi)

For context: this is written within a work regarding the siege of Beirut in 1982. “Memory for Forgetfulness is an extended reflection on the invasion and its political and historical dimensions. It is also a journey into personal and collective memory. What is the meaning of exile? What is the role of the writer in time of war? What is the relationship of writing (memory) to history (forgetfulness)?” (x)

[firstfullmoon]

Most days I try hard to act human, to breathe like a human and speak with the same flat language, but often

my kindness is clumsy—I stop a stranger to tie his shoe and end up kissing his knees.

— Kaveh Akbar, from “Against Hell,” in Calling a Wolf a Wolf

[lifeinpoetry]

“… what is a longing if not the tongue of a woman, saying her own name where no one can hear.”

— — Nisha Patel, from “what is a country,” Coconut

[of-spaceandstars]

“I had love once in the palm of my hand. See the lines there.”

— John Wieners (1934-2002), from “A Poem For Painters”, in “Selected poems, 1958-1984″ (via existential-celestial)

[existential-celestial]

“You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming—in fact not at all a warming—yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise. You pass a window, you walk to Central Park, you find yourself swimming in the colour blue: the actual light is blue, and over the course of an hour or so this blue deepens, becomes more intense even as it darkens and fades, approximates finally the blue of the glass on a clear day at Chartres, or that of the Cerenkov radiation thrown off by the fuel rods in the pools of nuclear reactors. The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes— the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows.”

— Joan Didion, Blue Nights

[existential-celestial]

“Spring has come again. The earth is like a child who knows poems by heart;”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, “XXI,”  in Sonnets to Orpheus  (Part One)

[existential-celestial]

[…]               My birthday began with the water—     Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name        Above the farms and the white horses                And I rose            In a rainy autumn     And walked abroad in shower of all my days     High tide and the heron dived when I took the road            Over the border                And the gates        Of the town closed as the town awoke.

Dylan Thomas (b. 27 Oct 1914), from “Poem in October,” in Collected Poems (via existential-celestial)

[lifeinpoetry]

The moral of the story is I will gut you if I need to.

I will carve my way out using only my teeth.

— Brenna Twohy, from “Little Red Riding Hood Addresses the Next Wolf,” swallowtail

[madeleinejubileesaito]

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[lifeinpoetry]

I have not almost-killed-myself in two years and three months,

but

I look at old poems and think,

someone should do something about this bleeding body.

my mouth, the space where a dead thing used to live,

even now.

— Brenna Twohy, from “I Am Not Clinically Crazy Anymore,” swallowtail

[existential-celestial]

“Love is plunging into darkness toward a place that may exist.”

— Marge Piercy, “Night flight” in The Moon Is Always Female