Jules of Nature
AnasAbdin

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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Misplaced Lens Cap
Xuebing Du
Three Goblin Art
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
todays bird
Cosimo Galluzzi
Monterey Bay Aquarium

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Today's Document
art blog(derogatory)
d e v o n
i don't do bad sauce passes
noise dept.

Product Placement
Peter Solarz
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@laurrrrrrrra
Rockport Church by Anthony Thieme ( Dutch-born American, 1888–1954)
e.e. cummings, “in the rain” (from Tulips), Complete Poems of E.E. Cummings: 1904-1962
—L.M. Montgomery, Anne of The Island/ Louisa May Alcott, Little Women/ Unknown/ John Keats, To The Ladies Who Saw Me Crowned/ Anne Sexton, Suicide Note: The Complete Poems/ Irish Murdoch, The Italian Girls/ Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath/ Anne Sexton, The Truth the Dead Know/ Virginia Woolf, The Waves/ Pablo Neruda, One Hundred Sonnets
Not a red rose or a satin heart. I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. Here. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be truthful. Not a cute card or a kissogram. I give you an onion. Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips, possessive and faithful as we are, for as long as we are. Take it. Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring, if you like. Lethal. Its scent will cling to your fingers, cling to your knife.
Carol Ann Duffy - “Valentine” featured in Mean Time
(via
watchoutforintellect
)
Clara Sipprell. In an Abandoned Garden, Dalmatia–Yugoslavia, ca. 1926.
Micah Nemerever, "These Violent Delights"
“Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.”
— Vincent van Gogh, The Letters of Vincent van Gogh (first published 1914)
An Olive Tree in the Garden of Gethsemane, 1882, Vasily Polenov
Medium: oil,canvas
I’m home. I’m done being
in love with what leaves— autumn gathers
in the trees, russet, then tries not to fall asleep
on the cold ground. God, it is hard being happy
if you try— instead, be like this slow
yellow. Let go.
— Kevin Young, from “Russet,” Stones
Virginia Woolf, from The Waves
Adonis, Selected Poems; “Beginnings of the Body, Ends of the Sea” (tr. Khaled Mattawa)
Jane Kenyon, published in Poetry
Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern - just the slow erosion of self as insidious as cancer. And like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience; a room in hell with only your name on the door.
Martha Manning (via onlinecounsellingcollege)
Good Morning, John Copeland (American).
“I am astonished in my teaching to find how many poets are nearly blind to the physical world. They have ideas, memories, and feelings, but when they write their poems they often see them as similes. To break this habit, I have my students keep a journal in which they must write, very briefly, six things they have seen each day—not beautiful or remarkable things, just things. This seemingly simple task usually is hard for them. At the beginning, they typically “see” things in one of three ways: artistically, deliberately, or not at all. Those who see artistically instantly decorate their descriptions, turning them into something poetic: the winter trees immediately become “old men with snow on their shoulders,” or the lake looks like a “giant eye.” The ones who see deliberately go on and on describing a brass lamp by the bed with painful exactness. And the ones who see only what is forced on their attention: the grandmother in a bikini riding on a skateboard, or a bloody car wreck. But with practice, they begin to see carelessly and learn a kind of active passivity until after a month nearly all of them have learned to be available to seeing—and the physical world pours in. Their journals fill up with lovely things like, “the mirror with nothing reflected in it.” This way of seeing is important, even vital to the poet, since it is crucial that a poet see when she or he is not looking—just as she must write when she is not writing. To write just because the poet wants to write is natural, but to learn to see is a blessing. The art of finding in poetry is the art of marrying the sacred to the world, the invisible to the human.”
— Linda Gregg, from “The Art of Finding”
George Hillyard Swinstead (1905) The Angel’s Message