repository

geographer // meanderthal

[metaphorformetaphor]

The long silences filled with you—are they vocal anywhere, anyhow, I wonder? […] They are like bands of silver set about the days.

Mary Haskell, from “a letter to Kahlil Gibran (Boston April 28, 1911),” Beloved Prophet: The Love Letters of Kahlil Gibran and Mary Haskell, and Her Private Journal ( Knopf, 1972)

[milsae]

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

As if one needed to begin to write; As though one had to have a pen at hand, Paper smoothening to the touch of night, Light sifting across the page like wind and sand.

This is the scrivener’s fallacy, the hour Abraded by sand and wind, by wilful words: They scrape at vision, the scarify and scour— The urn becomes a scuttering of shards;

The wind, a voice freed of its hollow shell Noting nothings echoing in the bone Bleaching among the dunes of time that swell: They shift, remembering they once were stone.

Sit stony-eyed; watch the words curl and come Stillborn to light between the joint and thumb.

Wesli Court, from “Reflections in an Attic Room: A Sonnet Redoublé,” Patterns of Poetry: An Encyclopedia of Forms by Miller Williams (Louisiana State University Press, 1986)

[rootsandroutes-blog]

Do what you like and do it honestly.

[derekmchl]

the only home i’ve ever known

[rootsandroutes-blog]

so happy Kilroy and I met 😌❤️

[rootsandroutes-blog]

For now, just talk, oh please just talk And say anything, just say anything at all Just talk my love, just talk and Say anything, just say anything at all

[rootsandroutes-blog]

Paul Wheatley inspired me to realize a piece of my own vision for my life as a scholar and a teacher and as a parent and I loved him for it. He was one of my scholarly heroes and my friend. And after I left the University of Chicago, I would find him, in disguise but alive in other great literature about cities and symbols, hierarchies and ceremonial centers, in stories about the ordeals and triumphs of life in cities.

David Carrasco

[joelzimmer]

Misty

Midtown, Manhattan

[metaphorformetaphor]

One day we must depart, no longer knowing anything of what was at the source of the fire, nor how nor why things all at once

began to go wrong and the fire went out, the rosebush changed to thorns, love to scorched earth and what remains with

our footsteps echoing where the heart once was is paltry: some words on paper that no longer say anything except that they were written, read and reread

by a blind man dancing in the fire.

— Guy Goffette, from “ Elegy for a Friend,” A Stranger’s Mirror: New and Selected Poems 1994-2014, transl. by Marilyn Hacker (W. W. Norton & Company, 2016) 

[rootsandroutes-blog]

I try to keep on keeping on

[robinstinsonforever]

“I always have fun with you.”

[rootsandroutes-blog]

My war is overwrought When my heart is spent Though you know they overwrite With the best intent, so Tomorrow is a day Like this gone by I'll try to keep my hopes From getting up too high now

[kafkasapartment]

Untitled, 1940. Auguste Herbin. Oil on canvas

[convexly]

[kafkasapartment]

Newstand, Southwest Corner of 32nd Street and Third Avenue, 1935. Berenice Abbott. Gelatin silver print

[convexly]