cherry blossom

I wanted poetry to do everything for me.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Nipuna Mehta (via @nipsyyy)

[wordscanbeenough]

Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband

[mournfulroses]

Anne Sexton, from Gods & Mortals: Modern Poems on Classics; "Where I Live in the Honourable House of the Laurel Tree,"

[luthienne]

Natasha Trethewey, from Thrall: Poems; "Mythology"

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

The Poems of Emily Brontë, ‘The Prisoner’ c. 1845

[englishgradinrepair]

"My theory is that a poem is troubled into its making. It’s not like a thing that blooms; it’s a thing that wounds. I had a terror I could tell to none, as Dickinson would say."

—Lucie Brock-Broido in an interview with BOMB Magazine (1995)

[apocryphics]

lydia davis

[metamorphesque]

― Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

[text ID: I realize full well how hard it must be to go on living alone in a place from which someone has left you, but there is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for.]

[soracities]

ocean vuong saying “the page is a fingerprint of a selfhood articulated through language" is going to be etched into my brain for the rest of my life

[soracities]

or that “beauty is not a thesis to be proven” or that “i want to be real but it costs so much” or that when you start writing for others’ attention “you’re already gone, you already took yourself out of the picture before you arrived at the page–and as a community, as a reader, i’ve lost you, i’m grieving you before you’re even done with the book”

[metamorphesque]

— Oscar Wilde 

[shisasan]

𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝟹𝟶, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹

[aridante]

hi lovely, do you have any quotes/poems about september?

sure thing! here are some of my favorites:

“september tastes of ashes. and yet it insists. softly. but it insists.” — julia de burgos, autumn psalm

“now it is september and the web is woven. / the web is woven and you have to wear it.” — wallace stevens, the dwarf

“this is september, mother, and here is sorrow bringing me its wrapped gifts.” — nizar qabbani, five letters to my mother

“september: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.” — alexander theroux, darconville’s cat

“i wear september on my face, which is eternal, and does not disappear even if you close your eyes once and for all simultaneously like two coffins.” — major jackson, on disappearing 

“divine september, the moon wanes.” — pierre jean jouve, after the flood

“september dusk; a crimson flame / died in my mouth.” — georg trakl, landscape

“it was september. in the last days when things are getting sad for no reason.” — ray bradbury, the lake

“but september would arrive one day like an exit.” — clarice lispector, in search for a dignity

“we know that in september, we will wander through the warm winds of summer’s wreckage. we will welcome summer’s ghost.” — henry rollins, the column: summer be gone

[altcomics]

Sandro Botticelli

[nicey-sandokan]

from the illustrations for the Divine Comedy, specifically from Paradise

[nervebynerve]

“The daily routine of most adults is so heavy and artificial that we are closed off to much of the world. We have to do this in order to get our work done. I think one purpose of art is to get us out of those routines. When we hear music or poetry or stories, the world opens up again. We’re drawn in — or out — and the windows of our perception are cleansed, as William Blake said. The same thing can happen when we’re around young children or adults who have unlearned those habits of shutting the world out.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin 

[lovingsylvia]

“June 15, 1951 The rain comes down again, on the indecently big green leaves, and there is the wet hiss of drops splashing and puckering the flat veined vegetable surfaces. Although the rain is neutral, although the rain is impersonal, it becomes for me a haunting and nostalgic sound.”

— The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, diary entry no. 81 for “June 15, 1951″

[weltenwellen]

Anne Sexton, from “The Truth the Dead Know”, The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton

[galina]

What a nice coincidence that our best light happens where the books are kept