Meditation on shapes.

My mind is not my friend.

1 note

Any Morning

Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.

People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can’t
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.

Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won’t even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.

Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.

— William Stafford

Filed under poetry william stafford

4 notes

Myrtle

How funny your name would be
if you could follow it back to where
the first person thought of saying it,
naming himself that, or maybe
some other persons thought of it
and named that person. It would
be like following a river to its source,
which would be impossible. Rivers have no source.
They just automatically appear at a place
where they get wider, and soon a real
river comes along, with fish and debris,
regal as you please, and someone
has already given it a name: St. Benno
(saints are popular for this purpose) or, or
some other name, the name of his
long-lost girlfriend, who comes
at long last to impersonate that river,
on a stage, her voice clanking
like its bed, her clothing of sand
and pasted paper, a piece of real technology,
while all along she is thinking, I can
do what I want to do. But I want to stay here.

-John Ashberry

Filed under poetry john ashberry

7 notes

Provision

All morning with dry instruments
The field repeats the sound
Of rain
From memory
And in the wall
The dead increase their invisible honey
It is August
The flocks are beginning to form
I will take with me the emptiness of my hands
What you do not have you find everywhere

W.S. Merwin

Filed under poetry ws merwin

106 notes

thepinesaredancing:

thecountryfucker:

If I Needed You - Townes (live 1975)

What a good lookin fella

If I needed you would you come to me
Would you come to me, for to ease my pain
If you needed me I would come to you
I would swim the sea, for to ease your pain.

Well, the night’s forlorn and the morning’s born
And the morning’s born with the lights of love
And you’ll miss sunrise if you close your eyes
And that would break my heart in two.

If I needed you would you come to me
Would you come to me, for to ease my pain
If you needed me I would come to you
I would swim the sea, for to ease your pain.

Baby’s with me now since I showed her
How to lay her lily hand in mine
Who could, I’ll agree she’s a sight
To see a treasure for the poor to find.

If I needed you would you come to me
Would you come to me, for to ease my pain
If you needed me I would come to you
I would swim the sea, for to ease your pain… 

King of the world. 

3 notes

Valentine

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
-Carol Duffy

118 notes

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Mary Oliver (via victimofescapism)

(Source: the-healing-nest, via victimofescapism-deactivated201)

135 notes

5centsapound:

Sophie Calle: Exquisite Pain

Part I presents photographs, letters and other mementos from a 92-day trip to Japan. On the last day, a wall label tells us, her lover back in Paris broke off with her by phone, and that is why each consecutive item is stamped ”92 days to unhappiness,” ”91 days to unhappiness” “90 days…” and so on.

Part II pertains to the period after the breakup, during which Ms. Calle asked people to describe to her their most emotionally painful memory. Diptychs arrayed around the gallery pair machine-embroidered banners, one bearing another person’s story and the other an increasingly brief retelling of Ms. Calle’s story. The banners hang below emblematic photographs: on Ms. Calle’s side, of the red hotel phone by which she received her bad news; on the other, of a significant thing or place. By the end of the series, Ms. Calle’s banner has become empty of words, her obsessive grief presumably exhausted.