Crocodile Tears

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I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.
T. S. Eliot, “East Coker” (via catherineaddington)

(via catherineaddington)

A garden of sleeplessness. A garden

Full of sleep eaters and the audience they have captured:
The ones they hurt as they eat the heart’s carved tablets.
And then eat the memory of them. A kind of forgiveness.
Brigit Pegeen Kelly, ‘The Column of Mercury Recording the Temperature of Night’ (via injusticeworth)<

sacree-cesaria:

Так начинается голод:
с утра просыпаешься бодрым,
потом начинается слабость,
потом начинается скука,
потом наступает потеря
быстрого разума силы,
потом наступает спокойствие.
А потом начинается ужас.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is how hunger begins:
      The morning you wake, feeling lively,
      Then begins the weakness,
      Then begins the boredom;
      Then comes the loss
      Of the power of quick reason,
      Then comes the calmness
      And then begins the horror.

- Daniil Kharms

She sweeps with many-colored Brooms —
And leaves the Shreds behind —
Oh Housewife in the Evening West —
Come back, and dust the Pond!

You dropped a Purple Ravelling in —
You dropped an Amber thread —
And now you’ve littered all the East
With Duds of Emerald!

And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars —
And then I come away.

Emily Dickinson, #219 (1861)

injusticeworth:

there were two bees marching

hand-in-hand on down the road

but the road was made of gravel

and no gravel helps bees go

so the bees, they kept on tripping

foot by foot

to bleeding knee

and all along they hummed the tune

of ragged, wounding bees

No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven’s glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear

O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee

There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.

Emily Brontë
(via yesindeedemilydickinson)
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)