[dreamy-loser]

mayakovsky // frank o’hara

[metamorphesque]

Stolen Moments, Kim Addonizio

☕

[violentwavesofemotion]

“Writing is self-humiliation and self-betrayal, there’s something indignant about the very act. I write and it is, in a way, as if I am cheating on myself with myself. Poetry, for me, is a single moment. A moment in time. It is true, like that. It is false, like that. One can never put it on trial.”

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a diary entry featured in Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay (via violentwavesofemotion)

[flowerytale]

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Dr. and Mrs. J.G. Holland (1858)

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

‘The Sentence’ by Anna Akhmatova as seen in The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry edited by Ilya Kaminsky & Susan Harris

[geritsel]

Valerius de Saedeleer - Atmospheric snowscapes

[antigonick]

“—everything that touches us, me and you, takes us together like a violin’s bow, which draws one voice out of two separate strings.”

—

Rainer Maria Rilke, excerpt of “Love Song” [Liebeslied], trans. by Stephen Mitchell in The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke

Source—alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich, nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich, der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.

[rapturousrot]

Romance (1999) dir. Catherine Breillat

[metamorphesque]

💌 Kafka, the Wardrobe and the Sunday Dress 💌

But on a better subject: Do you know when you were most beautifully dressed in Vienna, absolutely, absurdly beautifully dressed? There can’t be any argument about it: on Sunday.

Tuesday, July 6

By the way, why am I a human being, with all the torments this extremely vague and horribly responsible condition entails? Why am I not, for example, the happy wardrobe in your room, which has you in full view whenever you’re sitting in your chair or at your desk or when you’re lying down or sleeping (all blessings upon your sleep!)? Why am I not that? Because I would break down with grief if I had seen your misery during these last days, or even if—you should leave Vienna.

Thursday, July 15

Milena, industrious one, your room is undergoing a change in my mind; the desk and the whole place really didn’t look much like work before, but now it does, and so convincingly that I can feel this work; in your room it must be magnificently hot and cool and happy. Only the wardrobe remains as ponderous as always and sometimes the lock is broken and it doesn’t yield a thing, desperately staying shut, and in particular it refuses to give up the dress you wore on “Sunday”; if you should ever set up house again we’ll throw it out.

Thursday, July 22

Yes, the wardrobe. It will probably be the object of our first and last fight. I’ll say: “We’re throwing it out.” You’ll say: “It’s staying.” I’ll say: “Choose between it and me.” You’ll say: “Just a second. Frank and Schrank, * they rhyme. I’ll take the Schrank.” “Fine,” I’ll say and slowly walk down the stairs (which?) and—if I still haven’t found the Danube Canal, I’ll be living happily ever after.

Tuesday, July 27

And incidentally I’m all in favor of the wardrobe—you just shouldn’t wear the dress. You’ll wear it out and what will be left for me then?

Tuesday, July 27

And I trust you didn’t read my dumb jokes aloud to your wardrobe? You know I love almost everything in your room to the point of swooning.

Tuesday, July 27

[nobrashfestivity]

Caspar David Friedrich, Man and Woman Contemplating the Moon, ca 1818-24

[girlwoes]

“This is how it is with me: so strong, I want to draw the egg from your womb and nourish it in my own. I want to mother your child made only of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed from any man. I want to re-fashion the matrix of creation, make a human being from the human love that passes between our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is: when you emerge from the bedroom in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back over forearms, scented with cologne from an amber bottle—I want to open my heart, the brightest aching slit of my soul, receive your pearl. I watch your hands, wait for the sign that means you’ll touch me, open me, fill me; wait for that moment when your desire leaps inside me.”

— Deborah A. Miranda, “Love Poem to a Butch Woman” from The Zen of La Llorona

[rosieandthemoon]

early 1900’s

[metamorphesque]

Malcolm T. Liepke: In essence, I believe that no matter how alone we may feel in the world—how we imagine we are experiencing things in a vacuum—we all share the same human experiences. We all have the same basic needs for connection, love and understanding. I try to reach those universal needs; it’s what’s primal in art. I try to say it through mood, color, atmosphere and texture. Bottom line: It’s the [emotion], and I just want to get it out. It’s difficult to express through words things that are so beautiful that they have no words. I can’t explain it. I have to paint it. (1) Storytime, (2) Two Friends, (3) Comfy Chair, (4) Three in A Bar

[grundoonmgnx]

Javier Mayoral, Bunny Costumes, 2020 

Acrylic on Wood, 8 x 9.5 in

[antigonick]

To shut our eyes is Travel. The seasons understand this.

—Emily Dickinson, as quoted in Richard D. Sewall, The Life of Emily Dickinson

[hobohobgoblim]

Four puppies cuddling. Pompey, 1 century CE.

[myfairynuffstuff]

Jane Crowther - Birdwatching.