marchen wings @marchenwings - Tumblr Blog

decomposedmaw

Chillin’ on the Bridge

#subtle gif -#water #landscape

sonnearchive-deactivated2022120

hydramaticide

Work it grandma

hydramaticide

OK I SAID WORK IT AND SHE REALLY DID

greatmountainfloofsquatch

I think you mean, "Work it, GREAT grandma". And she does!

#fashion

luthienne

Dorothy Parker, from “One Perfect Rose”

#quote

soracities

Emily Skaja, "Black Lake", pub. The Offing [ID'd]

#poetry

soracities

There is need of light when one’s memories are dark, as I know to my cost. All day I have been prey to ugly, dismal thoughts. Yet I have so much to rejoice over: the warm sunny weather, the broad vista, the gentle cries of the birds and the pups calling from the seal colony, sounding for all the world like human babes.”

Sjón, From the Mouth of the Whale (trans. Victoria Cribb)

#prose

soracities

H.D., from poem [5] in Red Rose and a Beggar, Hermetic Definition [ID'd]

#poetry

soracities

Asli Mahdi, "Origin Story #4", pub. The Offing [ID'd]

#poetry

majestativa

“Raspberry twilight in a rose-glass; fragrance of the clipped rose.”

— László Nagy, Love of the Scorching Wind: Selected Poems 1953-1971

#quote

soracities

“The few flowers in the garden other than roses had survived—bellflowers, a couple of spiny cacti, some gentians. They bloomed discreetly, as though embarrassed to have been spared. The breeze seemed to discriminate, choosing only the rose petals to scatter.

A rose garden without roses was a meaningless, desolate place, and it was terribly sad to see the trellises and other signs of all the care that had been lavished on the flowers. The murmur of the river did not reach me here and the rich, soft soil made a pleasant sound underfoot. With my hands thrust in my pockets, I wandered across the hill as though walking through a cemetery of unmarked graves.

In years past, I had carefully studied the stems, leaves, and branches and had read the tags that identified the different varieties, but I realized now that I was already unable to remember what this thing called a rose had looked like.”

Yoko Ogawa, The Memory Police (tr. Stephen Snyder)

#prose