Crocodile Tears

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I forget the names of towns without rivers.
A town needs a river to forgive the town.
Whatever river, whatever town –
it is much the same.
The cruel things I did I took to the river.
I begged the current: make me better.
A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring
In constant with the things that sing
Not Birds entirely — but Minds —
Minute Effulgencies and Winds —
When what they sung for is undone
Who cares about a Blue Bird’s Tune —
Why, Resurrection had to wait
Till they had moved a Stone —
Emily Dickinson, #1530 (1881)
If I can believe in air, I can believe
in the angels of air.

Angels, come breathe with me.

Angel of abortion, angel of alchemy,
angels of barrenness and bliss,
exhale closer. Let me feel
your breath on my teeth—

I call to you, angels of embryos,
earthquakes, you of forgetfulness—

Angels of infection, cover my mouth
and nose with your mouth.

Failed inventions, tilt my head back.

Angels of prostitution and rain,
you of sheerness and sorrow,
you who take nothing,
breathe into me.

You who have cleansed your lips
with fire, I do not need to know
your faces, I do not need you
to have faces.

Angels of water insects, let me sleep
to the sound of your breathing.

You without lungs, make my chest rise—

Without you my air tastes
like nothing. For you
I hold my breath.
Mary Szybist, ‘Invitation’ (via injusticeworth)
Between My Country — and the Others —
There is a Sea —
But Flowers — negotiate between us —
As Ministry.
Emily Dickinson, #905 (1864)
Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied.
Woman! above all women glorified,
Our tainted nature’s solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost;
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon
Before her wane begins on heaven’s blue coast;
Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween,
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,
As to a visible Power, in which did blend
All that was mixed and reconciled in thee
Of mother’s love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene!
-William Wordsworth

comtesse-du-chocolat:

"I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea,
Yet, with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
To be wonderful and youthful, after all.”

- T. S. Eliot, Portrait of a Lady

(source: thecharmofhome.blogspot.gr)

(via varangoi)

Spring is the Period
Express from God.
Among the other seasons
Himself abide,

But during March and April
None stir abroad
Without a cordial interview
With God.

Emily Dickinson, #844 (1864)

When, oh when did I scatter so madly
All the goodness, the God-given grains?
Was my youth not spent with those who gladly
Sang to You in the glow of Your shrines?
 
Bookish wisdom, though, sparkled and beckoned,
And it rushed through my arrogant mind,
The world’s mysteries seemed within reckon,
My life’s lot like warm wax in the hand.
 
My blood seethed, and it spilled and it trickled,
Gleamed ahead with a multihued trace,
Without clamor there quietly crumbled
In my breast the great building of faith.
 
Then I passed betwixt being and dying,
I fell off and now cling to the edge,
And I gaze back with gratitude, trembling,
On the meaningless life I have led.
 
Not my reason, nor will, nor desire
Blazed the twists and the turns of its road,
It was purpose-from-High’s steady fire
Not made plain to me till afterward.
 
Now regaining the measure that’s true,
Having drawn with it water of being,
Oh great God! I believe now anew!
Though denied, You were always with me…

- Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

Serbian Epics - BBC documentary, directed by Paweł Pawlikowski

via Adam Curtis

selchieproductions:

They say this world is turning,
but I’m the one waxing and waning between two constants;
wandering a road of shattered ice
across oceans that tear me apart.

Time calcified rests by the edge of the water,
everything is still, but the memory of our ancestors
circumnavigating the planet in a struileag made of broken tongues;
our languages offered to Styx at dusk.

Walking by the sea,
I root myself in the cold sand of the cladach
but the tide empties the machair,
and covers the starry sky in battered grey,
each grain of salt etching the echo of your stolen voice
like whiplashes across my back.