Merry Harbinger @merryharbinger - Tumblr Blog

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“The flowers have come, and are adorable, dusky, tortured, passionate like you—“

— Virginia Woolf, in a letter to her lover Vita Sackville-West.

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Bridge from Elizabeth Taylor’s home to Richard Burton’s home, Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

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“Well, language does come hard to me. Shaped language. Formed poems. For me, they’re not just talk; they are not casual, even if they perform casualness. Art-making of any kind is tough, as I know you know. I think it should be. There is so much to consider, so much to be done. And we must wrestle with the imagination, even as we use our minds, such as they are, to use craft in the service of the poem. We always need to be reaching just beyond ourselves, I think. It’s difficult, but no more difficult than what my people do every day of their lives, with much less support and glory. Pipe fitters, rail workers, teachers, gravediggers, grocery store cashiers. I learned how to write poems as much from workers’ self-discipline and guts as I did from classes and books. I have a penchant for the real, even as “real,” in a poem, is stylized, languaged, and therefore a facsimile of the real. I have never written every day. Not only has the nature of my life not allowed that, I don’t think it would be my jam even if it was. I write in my head daily, though, and when I turn to the page, I’m ready to lay down the lines. And I revise as I compose. There’s a point of entry, and a period of intuition and understanding, and I need to capture it before it drifts on to some other lucky bloke.”

— An Interview with Diane Seuss

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— william wordsworth (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

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also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.

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𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 ; where the curtain lifts behind @nixscriptum: author notes, musings, and the visuals that stitch poetry to its moods, made for sharing process, inspirat us ion, and the voices of others I love to read.

I grew up scribbling make-believe into the edges of my notebooks, spinning imaginary worlds and love stories long before I knew how much I’d need them. Now I own a small-town bookstore, surrounded by the great love of my life: words. In the rare moments I’m not writing or working on my business: I am sipping (too much) coffee, playing cozy video games late into the night, rescuing and adopting out cats, (don’t ask me how many I’ve kept), or watching comfort movies I’ve seen a hundred times just to feel their familiar warmth. At the moment, I’m working on my first poetry book, a collection built from soft aches and stolen moments. I also write fiction novels (when I’m not too busy writing fanfic that absolutely no one asked for and yet somehow consumes my entire heart). I love writing about the magic tucked into ordinary days, and I believe more than anything in romanticizing life: morning light on hardwood floors, novels that break your heart a little, and a well-placed em dash. It’s all storytelling, really, and I’m endlessly in love with every version of it. Thanks for stepping into my little world. I hope something here makes you feel seen.

scribeherself

people will say “they’re only friends” and then show me two people who would crawl through broken glass to hear the other laugh once. two people who have memorized each other’s coffee orders, fears, childhood stories, and emergency contacts. two people who would haunt each other’s houses as ghosts. be serious.

nixscriptum

On Sundays.

scribeherself

Sundays are the universe's way of reminding us that it is okay to be still. it’s a day made of soft fabrics, slow melodies, and the gentle art of doing absolutely nothing with a deeply romantic heart.