Bridges & Forests

art, woodlands, and weird things

[mesogeios]

Zadie Smith

[veryyellowwhiteflash]

Sufjan Stevens, Carrie & Lowell Album artwork and photography in booklet

[harryandshawn-deactivated201906]

Iman for Costume magazine (x)

[weltenwellen]

How can I teach her some way of being human that won’t destroy her I would like to tell her, Love is enough, I would like to say, Find shelter in another skin. I would like to say, Dance and be happy. Instead I will say in my crone’s voice, Be ruthless when you have to, tell the truth when you can, when you can see it.

Margaret Atwood, Two-Headed Poems (via weltenwellen)

[woodlandmarchingband]

Thank your mother for the Sunday roast on a Thursday Thank the wind pulsing through the grass Thank the sharp turns And the motorway speed limits that pushed me back against my seat Twisting my stomach like an overcast sky On a day off In the winter when the mud turns black Streets are silent and Everybody underground stretches their arms out With a deep sigh Sending everyone up to bed by nine From the humming that vibrates deep in the earth And boils the kettle, and the soup, Over which white freezing hands tremble

Poem born from procrastination

[mesogeios]

I can’t tell you what art does and how it does it, but I know that art has often judged the judges, pleaded revenge to the innocent and shown to the future what the past has suffered, so that it has never been forgotten. I know too that the powerful fear art, whatever its form, when it does this, and that amongst the people such art sometimes runs like a rumour and a legend because it makes sense of what life’s brutalities cannot, a sense that unites us, for it is inseparable from a justice at last. Art, when it functions like this, becomes a meeting-place of the invisible, the irreducible, the enduring, guts and honour.

John Berger  (via wraithlings)

[harrietvane]

Liberty fabrics A/W 2017, in tana lawn cottons

[hiddenshores]

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via hiddenshores)

[thisbodyofwater]

Got drunk on the sweat of a red, red star. Spoke in my sleep about someone setting gentle gold on our girlish throats, leaving lost teeth on the thirsty moon. Insert the tone of all this soft gray wind. All the seawater in our little pink lungs. How my body loves loneliness and five more minutes and one last cigarette. That time we peaked out the blinds with that techno in the background, caught last glimpses of the leaves, their exposed underbellies blown cool by the storm still two miles out. Felt ourselves swallowed by something safe. Lavender. Breakfast food. Book spines we just couldn’t keep ourselves from bending.

Keri Austin, “An Excerpt” (via thisbodyofwater)

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

Poor and without stars, I am. In blue shadows, by memory I understand; not every flower opens.

Dorothy Doyle Mienko, closing lines to “While Pondering the Iris of His Eyes,” Tryst (no. 16, June 2006)

[collegiate-confession]

Incoming college freshmen: you might think u can do an 8am, you might even think u can do a 9am. But the truth is, u can’t even do an 11am.

[woodlandmarchingband]

My old man dog turned 15 a couple days ago. He's having steak for dinner.

[7while23]

Graciela Sacco, Untitled (Admissible Tension), 1996/2011 (Light installation, print on mirror, knife and light)

[lovingsylvia]

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, diary entry no. 6, August 1950 (via lovingsylvia)

[cammiegoodes]

sense8 manages to be a bollywood rom com, mexican soap opera, a cop drama, nancy drew hacktivist adventure, nicholas sparks movie, martial arts film, and a german gangster romance while also being a sci-fi mystery, musical and family sitcom all in one show. and somehow i am here for all of it.

[nevver]

North American Purgatory, Marc Trujillo

[10inchflaccid-deactivated201701]

oh my…. god

[boykeats]

july

my god has bones of salt, has teeth of lavender petals still wet with dew. when i tell him about the love i have in me, his heart turns firefly gold, so bright i see it all the way from the ground, his glowing chest another saturn in the clear night sky. my god has eyes of violet inkwells. he sends me rainwater & cut peaches when i can’t sleep, which must be his way of saying i’m proud you decided not just to live but to live like your blood is a sunrise.