Verbrannte Worte

Denn hier wohnen Geister, Blasse Schatten, verlorene Erinnerungen, Irren haltlos umher, Suchen, sehnen, verzehren sich nach dem Leben. ____________________ Ich will Erinnerungen und Momente in Marmeladengläsern konservieren und festhalten können. 20. Neurotisches Einhorn.

[weltenwellen]

Jennifer Chang, from "Dialogues (Against Literature)"

[akindplace]

F. E. Marie

[soracities]

the way ivan aivazovsky looks at the sea…i think…i think that’s what love looks like.

[soracities]

love is surrounding yourself with people who see you this clearly

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

On the Pulse of Morning By Maya Angelou

[requiem-on-water]

Fairy trees of the Baltic Coast II by Heiko Gerlicher

[weltenwellen]

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke, 1892-1910

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from "The Buddha's Last Instructions", Devotions

[ancientsstudies]

Poems that the earth writes upon the sky.

[quotemadness]

“Wherever you are, be all there.”

— Jim Elliot

[primulaceas]

Mary Oliver, “Dogfish.” Dream Work

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from “I Don't Want to Be Demure or Respectable”, Blue Horses

[en-la-casademiamor-deactivated2]

The story of a fox

I am the cause to the tremble in pooled water, the moon dew and glistening gossamer threads that cannot disassemble.

In this foothold to a simple story: our love made eventual dust, there is a wrought iron fence surrounding a secret that remains breathless.

I reside somewhere in this realm, behind your eyes and further away from who you once proclaimed adoration for.

It’s as if we are in perpetuum,  a wake in water leaving an island, a timed permanence made from a small ship sailing away from jackals that keep the veil of darkness shuddered  protecting a felicity:

It is a common story of love seeding love into another’s mouth; a life finding a life: You were the nocturnal pale moon written of in a poem for me, long ago—And I was what shook the form of some shrubbery  that surrounded your imagination.

In some way, I will always be there, as a rustle your peaked ears might hear, but that your eyes will never see.

I am the sound emitting from a playful night creature: a fox with streaks of flame for a mane, finding comfort on cool moss beneath the infinite gloam; alone and somehow,  importantly, still in love.

[soracities]

Aracelis Girmay, “Ars Poetica”  |  John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos  |  Derek Walcott, “The Antilles: Fragments of Epic Memory (Nobel Lecture)”  |  sam sax, “Prayer for the Mutilated World”  |  Edmond Jabés, “Drawn Curtains”

[frogandtoadpdf]

on earth we’re briefly gorgeous - ocean vuong | she’s got you - patsy cline | for all the dogs who barked at me on the sidewalks in connecticut - hanif abdurraqib |  the glass essay - anne carson | a memory like a knife - julien pacuad | arzum uzun | you are happy - margaret atwood | this is what i have of you - fun home

[weltenwellen]

Jorie Graham, from “Scarcely There”

[weltenwellen]

Jorie Graham, from “Mother’s Hands Drawing Me”

[weltenwellen]

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, from “Not Doing Something Wrong Isn’t the Same as Doing Something Right”, The Year of No Mistakes