I am held by silence. I have been here a long time.
Beth Fein, from It Happens As We Speak; A Feminist Poetics; “Philomela,” (via violentwavesofemotion)
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I am held by silence. I have been here a long time.
Beth Fein, from It Happens As We Speak; A Feminist Poetics; “Philomela,” (via violentwavesofemotion)
Marianne Moore, from Selected Poems of Marianne Moore: “The Web One Weaves Of Italy,”
“Creative chaos, flux, efflorescence,”
— Carolyn Kizer, from Cool, Calm & Collected: Poems; “Pro Femina,”
“The tree is forgiveness and vigilance. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but is entrusted with the secrets of dreamers, standing guard night and day, showing respect to passers-by and to the heavens. The tree is a standing prayer, directing its devotions upwards. When it bends a little in the storm, it bends majestically,”
Mahmoud Darwish, tr. by Catherine Cobham, from “A River Dies of Thirst,”
“…and he was wondering at the strangeness of it all, when suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an infinite silence seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed, and for a moment of time he stood face to face there with a presence, that was neither man nor beast, neither the living nor the dead, but all things mingled, the form of all things but devoid of all form. And in that moment, the sacrament of body and soul was dissolved, and a voice seemed to cry ‘Let us go hence,’ and then the darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of everlasting.”
— Arthur Machen, from ‘The Great God Pan’ (via aegeanesea)
“Man is not body. The heart, the spirit, is man. And this spirit is an entire star out of which he is built. If therefore a man is perfect in his heart, nothing in the whole light of Nature is hidden from him.”
— Paracelsus, quoted in Haiku: The Gentle Art of Disappearing by Gabriel Rosenstock (Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009)
You rise, I fall, I stand, you crawl You twist, I turn, who’s the first to burn You sit and stay, I don’t to obey Where do we land in the Black Sea?
“We forget we’re mostly water till the rain falls and every atom in our body starts to go home.”
— Albert Huffstickler, “We Forget” (via larmoyante)
John Harris, “The Search”
@eritvita | closed
It is through shadow that all liminal spaces are interlinked. Veiled corners, niches, and doorframes; lightless rooms and corridors; dark spaces, dark places - all joined by shadow to form an erratic web of tenuous pathways. Opening, closing, shifting, cut short...All it takes is a mere step to cross worlds. And a mere misstep to plummet for eternity in the endless void of interplanar abyss.
The shortest paths are never the safest, but only the wise or sane pay heed to danger. And eyes that watch in the dark.
As Majda steps out of shadow, the only concern he puts to thought is a brief wonder about the temperature of his coffee. The dark roast’s scent still wafting over his face affirms that his coffee wasn’t turned into a block of ice this time. Slowly Majda turns his head, eyes wide and unseeing of the physical world he’s stepped into, but he Sees the magic and energy around him - most immediately, the calm, persistence of the large oak beside him whose shadow he stepped out of, who he gives a whisper of thanks to.
However, he ignores the small group of people at his other side, and they are just as content to ignore him--most of the general populace don’t notice him in the first place, unless they’ve a Reason, and a large percentage of those who do in fact notice him, tend to pretend that they don’t. And thus it all falls neatly into place.
Sipping his coffee, Majda extends his white cane, tapping his way along the ground on his way forward. Having the Sight aids in many ways, but curbs? Visual aid required. He walks across the green with no issue, stepping onto sidewalk, and pauses there. The scents and sounds tell him nothing other than it was early evening and that the shops along this decaying city-edge street still managed to attain customers. Pleasant as ever.
@lethanaviir | { ask } | closed
"Pain is one of many price we might exchange for growth.” Kneeling on the floor before the pool, Manvunea is an effigy of reverential contemplation. One hand rests upon his lap, palm up, the other hovers over the pool, the tips of his long fingers only just touching the dark water’s surface.
Slowly, silver eyes raise, bright and bottomless chalices filled to the rim with ever-flowing potentials, to follow the rising and falling of the currents flowing around them. He Sees past the immediate surroundings, through the glow of the One near him, Feeling the twinkling threads weaving and twining around his fingers.
“All change comes at a cost; even regression, for all its superficial ease, takes a deep toll.”
The Ritual (David Bruckner, 2017)