a writing blog.

misplaced meditations from a maladjusted mind.

[synthecid]

Mina Bakhtiari

[04k96]

[apoemaday]

It Was Like This: You Were Happy

by Jane Hirshfield

It was like this: you were happy, then you were sad, then happy again, then not.

It went on. You were innocent or you were guilty. Actions were taken, or not.

At times you spoke, at other times you were silent. Mostly, it seems you were silent — what could you say?

Now it is almost over.

Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life.

It does this not in forgiveness — between you, there is nothing to forgive — but with the simple nod of a baker at the moment he sees the bread is finished with transformation.

Eating, too, is a thing now only for others.

It doesn’t matter what they will make of you or your days: they will be wrong, they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man, all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention.

Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad, you slept, you awakened. Sometimes you ate roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons.

[mikimeiko]

Paris is Burning (Jennie Livingston, 1990)

[kuchipachi]

white flag by lucia gallipoli

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“Now time curves back. We almost touch.”

— Michael Ryan, from “Consider a Move,” A Difficult Grace: On Poets, Poetry, and Writing (University of Georgia Press, 2000)

[pink111shit]

[bobbole]

Marwan Makhoul

[eddysonline]

The original flag, by Gilbert Baker, June 25, 1978.

[lifeinpoetry]

fragile beauty become more remote make decrepit of category make ruin of taxonomy

— Rosie Stockton, from "LOOSE ENDS," Fuel

[evertestati]

Protect me from what I want

[apoemaday]

The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm

by Wallace Stevens

The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book, Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much to be The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought. The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind: The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world, In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

[nobrashfestivity]

GUSTAVE BUCHET (ETOY 1888-1963 LAUSANNE) Paysage aux nuages stamped 'G. Buchet' (lower right) oil on canvas 28 3/4 x 23 3/8 in. (73 x 59.4 cm.) Painted in 1913.

[fernicenty]

older study for a bear illustration 🤎

[nickturse]

[todaysbat]

Image description: over an image of a grassy coastline and a blue sky with a few clouds is the words "There is enough if we share" in all caps.

[lifeinpoetry]

Anything too cold does not become poetry Anything too hot is not poetry When soaking your feet in boiling water poetry does not come out When lying in ice with eyes wide open poetry does not come out

— Kim Hyesoon, from "A Flower That Refuses to Become Poetry," The Hell of That Star, tr. Cindy Juyoung Ok

[thejawsdevour]

Ivan Milev (Bulgarian) - All Souls' Day (gouache and bronze on paper, 1923)