wandering

for the love of words

[waxenheart]

[waxenheart]

Life and night are falling from me, / Death and day are opening on me.

Elizabeth Siddal, Lord, May I Come?

[waxenheart]

I was born under an unlucky star and my destiny has caught up with me.

Lesley Nneka Arimah, Glory from What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky

[waxenheart]

Ladies and gentlemen, patch up my soul. / It could not leak if it were hollow.

Vladimir Mayakovsky, Mayakovsky

[waxenheart]

Glory has become a chimera that can no longer be seen, and one persuades oneself that one has never seen it in one's lifetime.

José Luis de Juan, Napoleon’s Beekeeper

[waxenheart]

... I need language to live, like food—lexemes and morphemes and morsels of meaning nourish me with the knowledge that, yes, there is a word for this. Someone has felt it before.

M. L. Rio, If We Were Villains

[waxenheart]

The channels open up, April May / and sweet honey dribbling June.

Tomas Tranströmer, The Indoors is Endless

[waxenheart]

The moon is a sickle in the sky.

Sarvat Hasin, The Giant Dark

[waxenheart]

I love it, like this, when I lose touch / with whose the voice is, whose the fingers / on the bow, the pen, whose mouth / the noise belongs to in the end.

Jo Shapcott, Shapcott’s Variation on Schoenberg’s Orchestration of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E♭ major, “St Anne”

[waxenheart]

And leaning upon my limping soul, / I'll stagger off towards my throne / with the holes of stars along its tatty dome.

Vladimir Mayakovsky, Prologue from Vladimir Mayakovsky

[waxenheart]

— C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

[waxenheart]

My hands confused / for want of your hands / or waist.

Keith S. Wilson, Aubade to a Collapsed Star

[waxenheart]

A depth of devotion, big primary colour love...

Sarvat Hasin, The Giant Dark

[waxenheart]

Montage love, swift and beautiful, chasing our blood.

Sarvat Hasin, The Giant Dark

[waxenheart]

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone

Edgar Allan Poe, Alone

[waxenheart]

And the nights, bigger than imagining: black and gusty and enormous, disordered and wild with stars.

Donna Tartt, The Secret History

[waxenheart]

The distinguishing mark of youth is perhaps a magnificent vocation for facile joys. But above all it is a haste to live that borders on waste.

Albert Camus, Summer in Algiers