2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
sheepfilms
Origami Around
hello vonnie
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Show & Tell
blake kathryn
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Monterey Bay Aquarium
gracie abrams
titsay
★
Cosimo Galluzzi
Claire Keane
if i look back, i am lost
Doug Jones
Misplaced Lens Cap
🪼
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@underground-dead-things
So this week, I watched DBC again: I remain convinced that it is not only a good film in general, but also one that is “good for the community” in ways both obvious and subtle. In fact, I think DBC is so good on queer issues that I’m beginning to suspect that it’s the assumptions and motives of the detractors that are problematic.
we weren’t hungry for anything other than our own survival, and still, even then, they wanted us to starve. do you remember the night our dreams stood upright and walked away from us and we tried to stop them, even told them we’d change, be better, but they kept walking away, straight out of our lonely and straight out of our want. do you remember that time they asked us where our good hearts disappeared to, and that girl said “he took it with him, too” and how the moon’s face crumpled when she heard that and oh my god there’s too many people to save, too many people who leave their home cities, who leave brooklyn, who leave new york behind and swear they’ve never been happier but still keep up with the weather here and still smile when they see it on tv and swear they’ve never been happier, never, never happier. do you remember that time we swore we were unforgivable, and so we didn’t ask for forgiveness, didn’t hold our hands up, didn’t even look for God. do you remember that time the place your father came from (and your father’s father and your father’s mother and your mother and you’re mother’s mother and your mother’s father and everyone else before) sunk like a ship and you, miles away, woke up gasping for air. do you remember that time you became a poet because you couldn’t stop the blood so you gave the wound the honesty it deserved. or the time the rivers grew legs and rushed towards you and your island body eroded, and the tourists didn’t even notice the parts that were missing but you forgave them anyway because they were the only ones who visited even if they ruined you every time they did. do you remember the time you wanted someone to love, even if it was just as a memory, so you made up a face and gave it a name, and still to this day keep it with you, in the deepest parts of your ocean sadness. in the darkest parts of your lonely, lonely ache.
I rode the whole train line to the city and back out to home, to the end of the line until I was the only one left in the carriage because I am the only one who rides out this far and still I barely even notice. I’ve memorized the bus route mine to yours to the library to the abandoned theatre and out to the sea, the way we’d always spent our lazy Sunday afternoons. I counted the silence between the screeching halt as another stranger boards to seek their strange destination. I loved the solitude of the walk from my stop, all down hill until I reached your doorstep until I reached you staircase until I reached your bedroom and remember you hadn’t lived in that house for years, you hadn’t lived at all in years.
rowan quinn, my old maps are growing worn (via neverworlder)
Last week, I learned that the English language has more euphemisms for death than any other language. I learned that the ancient Greeks had no word for the colour blue and that the Hawain alphabet has only twelve letters. I spent last week hollowing out a little place in my heart and filling it with worry. What does that say about us? Do we really go out of our way to avoid death like that? How did the Greeks describe the sea? Are twelve letters really enough? Does every language have a word for love? Every language should have a word for love. And compassion. And gentleness. And figs and snow and that soft sensitive part on the inside of one’s arm. We should have words for everything so that we don’t feel alone. We need very very very specific words for all of the different kinds of sad and even more specific words for the kinds of happy. What if we were able to talk about everything? I want to tell you how I feel and I want to be precise. Sometimes ‘good’ just isn’t enough and few understand what I mean when I say that I feel ’like lightning.’
Question: how long do you have to stare into the abyss before it loves you back? how long do you have to stand at the edge before the urge to jump disappears? Answer: As long as it takes. Until you wake up.
balance. (r.a.)
Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award
(I realise this isn’t a poetry submission, but it would fantastic if you could post it, as some of your followers may fit the age bracket for this competition, and it would be a fantastic opportunity for them! Thank you!)
Calling all young poets!
The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2015 is open for entries! We are looking for the best poets aged 11-17 from across the world. Poems can be of any length, in any style and on any theme. Deadline is the 31st July, 2015.
Judged by Liz Berry and Michael Symmons Roberts, this year’s winners will join an illustrious list of Foyle winners who have gone on to perform at prestigious venues and publish their work. The top 15 poets win a week’s residential Arvon creative writing course or a poet residency in their school among other prizes. The top 100 commended winners are invited to an awards ceremony at the Southbank Centre, and receive a year’s Youth Membership to the Poetry Society, plus a number of book prizes and continued support from the Society.
For full details visit http://poetrysociety.org.uk/competitions
Even if you are not eligible to enter, please reblog and spread the word. This competition is particularly important for young international poets, and for young people who would not otherwise have the opportunity to take part in an competition such as this one!
I’ve been thinking recently why I am so attached to the idea of superheroes, and why I feel the concept of them is important. I haven’t really had any chance to voice this, or even known what I actually wanted to say on the matter, honestly. None of my friends really care for comic books so I can’t really discuss it. Either way, it’s time I got this out of my system.
Keep reading
Father and Son
Instead of a poem, today we will examine a parable. It is said that Jesus taught many of his contemplative principles through parables, not giving an answer outright but making the people question, prod and ponder at what the message could be.
"Every age has its bitter, every age has its grief: Son toiled o'er his book, father was vexed beyond belief. The one had no rest; the other no freedom, forsooth: Father lamented his age, son lamented his youth."
'Father and Son', though shouldn't be exclusive to just males as it can and does apply to females, is about the paradoxical struggle that life constantly bestows. The Son, ignorant and bound by society as not ready for real life, goes to school to hunch over books and 'learning', whilst the Father must resolve and think out his life. The Son does not have any freedom to do as he wishes and whilst the Father has freedom, he has no peace. The Father is distraught and wishes his youth back, whilst the son wishes he had the freedom an adult possesses. A paradox of time that no doubt I will experience one day, though it has taught me to savor youth and do not think that my later years will be as glamorous as the relatively care-free ways of now.
Clown in the Moon
"My tears are like the quiet drift Of petals from some magic rose; And all my grief flows from the rift Of unremembered skies and snows. I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream."
Clown in the Moon, by Dylan Thomas.
Easily on of the most confusing poems I've ever read, "The Clown in the Moon" is a very short piece about... A clown, in the moon.
The poem starts with a simile, comparing his/her tears to "the quiet drift from some magic rose". They are silent tears that flow, but come from a "magic rose", which is either very rare or does not exist at all. The presumption is that this clown rarely ever cries, which makes sense since clowns are commonly associated with laughter, entertainment and happiness.
"And all of my grief flows from the rift, Of unremembered skies and snows". This is the most confusing part of the piece, but from what I have interpreted the clown in the moon is in a depressed state because of not being able to remember the Earth, specifically, the skies and snows.
"I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble;". From a literal point of view, if the clown ventures from the moon and back to this unremembered land it would collapse, so he not only is forbidden from the land, but knows that his return will meet catastrophic results.
Finally, "It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream". Reminiscing on how beautiful the world is, it is an unsteady or shaking dream, very fragile.
I am not very confident on this examination at all. Ultimately, I feel like this poem is an analysis of the nature of humorous people: perhaps it is the jolliest of people, who wear a mask with a big smiley face, that feel more distant to the world than anyone else. The Clown in the Moon cannot remember what it's like to be one with the Earth, he is distant, far away, and he is grieving that he no longer can come back to the world. His/she appreciates the world, he knows it's beautiful and the stuff of legend, but if he returns everything would crumble because his purpose is to be happy, to entertain and wear a mask with a big smiley face. To become grounded with the skies and snows would be to go against his nature as a clown, and everything would fall apart. Dylan Thomas has made a very nice poem, certainly one of, if not, his most confusing piece, yet that is the beautiful part of poetry: not only deciphering the encrypted message within, but comparing it to others, because everyone has a unique outlook.
- Wild Wolf.
maybe.
Also this song. I love stealing images of Google. Hooray.
The long intro, mellow tune, repetition may be not for everyone, but it's certainly one I listen to on the bus at night.
All that is Gold does not Glitter
“All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king” - 'All that is gold does not glitter, J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm going to be a cheeky little sausage here and analyze a poem that, traditionally, only exists to elude to a key piece of a larger story. It's from my favourite fantasy series of all time, The Lord of the Rings, which is far and beyond epic. The poem is specifically about the Lone Ranger and heir to Gondor, Aragorn, whom for many years has rejected the crown and his duty to be a King. Harboring doubt, fear and resentment Aragorn's story is ultimately about setting aside the ranger and living up to his destiny; Strider must don his clock and take up his bloodline's seat. 'All that is gold does not glitter' isn't an entirely original line, instead it is an altered version of Shakesphere's words, "All that glitters is not gold". Whilst Shakesphere's version implies that people who shine with promise aren't always who they say they are, Tolkien's variant implies the exact opposite: Aragorn, who does not glitter, is still destined for greatness; he is not what he appears to be. The second line, "Not all those who wander are lost" means that though his alternate persona, Strider, APPEARS to be an aimless drifter, wandering in the wild, Aragorn isn't lost. He still a key piece in a large plan, and is not without purpose. "The old that is strong does not wither" and "Deep roots are not reached by the frost" once again reiterates that Aragorn's inner strength and potential as a leader isn't dead; it is shrouded by doubt yet it is still pure. King's blood flows through his veins and the lineage still endures underneath his persona. "From the ashes a fire will be awoken" speaks that after a great battle or event, Aragorn's inner self will finally rise to the challenge. The ashes, which are made by fire, will reignite a flame, one that will fight peril. This message is reinforced by "A light from the shadows will spring": shrouded in darkness Aragorn the King will arrive at the hour of War. The night is darkest before the dawn and during Sauron's assault the ashes will produce it's champion. "Renewed shall be blade that is broken" refers to the sword Isildur used to defeat Sauron many ages ago. This may also refer to Aragorn's bloodline which has since been renewed by him accepting Andúril. Finally the last line is "The crownless again shall be King", which spells out the picture. Whilst the poem was crafted specifically to supplement Aragorn's own story, it is still a piece that many have pondered upon in relation to themes such as destiny, duty and not judging a book by it's cover. Whilst Aragorn's plot thread isn't entirely relatable, in a broad sense, it can still be viewed as a poem that teaches a lesson that is relevant to many people: we must all discover our true force sooner or later. Whether it be accepting the task of leader in a school exercise or not running away from your destiny / problems, Tolkien's poem is short and sweet.
Interstellar
Our dreams lie between
The stars of a galaxy,
Always reaching up.
Lovely Haiky right here.
Love Has No Colour
'Love Has No Colour' by Izumi Shikibu "In this world Love has no colour Yet how deeply My body Is stained by yours,"
- 'Love has no colour' by Izumi Shikibu.
"In this world", love is an ambiguous concept, it isn't a concrete noun. We can imagine love, we can see love, we can FEEL love but it is just a concept afterall. So, what colour is love, or a better question, CAN there be a colour for love? In society, love is celebrated with deep reds and pink, yet logically, love cannot have a colour. You could have given it any colour at the beginning of it's conception and it would have stuck. The true reality is that "Love has no colour". However, that isn't to say that we can't be stained by it. That the stain, made up of little things and reasons and sunny days and moments and pieces of life, whilst colourless, is still there. It's a powerful emotion, everyone knows that, and not merely through relationships with people: the love I have for the rain, or tv shows, for fictional characters, everything can be felt and leave a stain, yet it is colourless. We can't ever see the stain, but it will always be there, branded, imprinted, left behind. And in that stain is transparency: love shows exactly what it is, it doesn't have to be a colour. It shows where the love comes from, crystal clear, it shows to whom or what it's existence is there for. If love had a colour, it would be like looking through a mirror and seeing nothing but pink. Colourless, however, is just a deep transparency that shows the truth, the origin, the reason and memories. It is a stain, it is colourless and it isn't blind and it proves what it is. So pure...
- Wild Wolf
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.
Walt Whitman, Song of Myself (via introspectivepoet)
Walt Whitman is the bomb.
Oh, I don’t mean you’re handsome, not the way people think of handsome. Your face seems kind. But your eyes - they’re beautiful. They’re wild, crazy, like some animal peering out of a forest on fire.
Charles Bukowski (via introspectivepoet)
Great words, great man.
there is a poem somewhere in these dry eyes and all the words wept onto paper
ryangpoet (via ryangpoet)
