The little tent of Blue

"Nascere e crescere, e ardere d'inconsapevolezza nelle estese pianure."

[un-belmorir-maqroll]

Un giorno Andremo insieme, lo promettemmo un tempo Sul tarassaco negli occhi gialli di un merlo. Lasceremo a casa le buone mogli e ce ne andremo a pescare il verso, quello che il fiume impreca sulle pietre quando inciampa nella notte scura. E forse in tutta notte non prenderemo nulla. Ma gocce d’acqua cadranno nell’erba Come lacrime di principesse Dal bosco uscite scalze. E forse in strada ti domanderanno Maestro, a quando un libro nuovo? E tu gli dirai dopo il diluvio Se ci sarà un bel fango. E forse i cieli si impietosiranno e ci scroscerà nella poesia e nelle scarpe, nubi fredde come trote maculate ci sorvoleranno le teste. E daremo al vento il nome di Jaromír E torneremo sull’acqua allegra. Jan Skácel

[bluewillowmoon]

“I wish to worship at the wood’s heart, the stone’s eye, the language found forming forever in the swaying cranes of the trees.”

— Dow Mossman, from The Stones of Summer (Sterling, 2003)

[lifeinpoetry]

the problem with distance / is that it just works too good // & when I understand it, I don’t / believe in it anymore

— Rosie Stockton, from "DISPERSAL," Fuel

[marina98s]

[dinonfissatoaffetto]

Nessuno verrà mai su questa terra

a dirci la ragione delle cose,

fosse anche una ragione da niente;

a svegliare i morti bambini,

a svelare la legge totale della

iniquità.

- Anna Maria Ortese

[1five1two]

'City of Cards'. Piero Fornasetti. 1950.

[fortezzabastiani]

Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis

(Si può morire di dolore)

[sussultidellanima]

[fortezzabastiani]

Pensieri orizzontali.

(ph Sigurður Guðmundsson)

[myjetpack]

My latest cartoon for New Scientist

p.s. I'm coming to Germany soon with my new book of science cartoons. Details at www.tomgauld.com

[poemwav]

– Jackie Wang

[nefelwma-tou-wriwna]

Be that penguin

[journalofanobody]

“How can you hide from what never goes away?”

— Heraclitus

[bluewillowmoon]

“There are spaces for living

and spaces for forgetting.

Sometimes they’re the same.”

— Rita Dove, from “Voiceover,” Poetry (2020)

[heavenhillgirl]

La fille sur le pont (1999), Patrice Leconte

[ratleyland]

There is a kind of peace that comes from no longer needing to be understood

[mhsteger]

[journalofanobody]

mhsteger:

Hermann Broch (born 1 November, 1886; died 30 May, 1951), pictured above in a photograph made, I believe, around 1950, when the author lived in New Haven

  ‘…he had long, yes too long, searched for his own vocation; for the sake of this always known yet never known goal, dissatisfied with every profession, he had prematurely broken away from each one, unable to find peace in any, either in the calling of a medical man, a mathematician, astrologer, philosophical scholar or teacher: the demanding but unrealized vision of knowledge, the grave recognizable image of death had stood perpetually before his eyes, and no vocation measured up to that…none with the exception of that one to which he had finally been driven and which is called poetry, the strangest of all human occupations, the only one dedicated to the knowledge of death.’

—from The Death of Virgil (1945; translated from the German by Jean Starr Untermeyer)

[megairea]

“Tonight my dreams will follow the wind,”

— Wu Tsao, from “Bitter rain in my courtyard“; Women Poets of China (tr. by Kenneth Rexroth)