I HEAR IT IN THE DEEP HEART'S CORE

and I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow

Corpse Roads - Keaton Henson
Don’t lie, don’t lie, don’t lie
I know we’re fixing to die

(Source: play-listings, via shakespearr)

1 hour ago - 1296

to remember you, as Aristotle
would insist, is not to
recall you


not clever or quick
enough for
recollection


but in the slow
turn of
attention, I do


bring you back, which
does not mean I know you


a picture

Keith Waldrop, from “The Balustrade,” The House Seen from Nowhere (Litmus Press, 2002)

artmastered:

Gustav Klimt, Pallas Athene, 1898, oil on canvas and inlay, 75 x 75 cm, Historisches Museum der Stadt Wien, Vienna.
Despite being a huge fan of the Symbolists, I hadn’t come across Klimt’s Pallas Athene before. It was only when my good friend mentioned it the other day that I looked it up - and I’m so glad I did. Klimt has typically used plenty of gold to represent the armour of strong and determined Athena, though the effect is less reminiscent of some of his famous gold works (think The Kiss and Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer), and more like the metallic sheen of Judith and the Head of Holofernes.

artmastered:

Gustav Klimt, Pallas Athene, 1898, oil on canvas and inlay, 75 x 75 cm, Historisches Museum der Stadt Wien, Vienna.

Despite being a huge fan of the Symbolists, I hadn’t come across Klimt’s Pallas Athene before. It was only when my good friend mentioned it the other day that I looked it up - and I’m so glad I did. Klimt has typically used plenty of gold to represent the armour of strong and determined Athena, though the effect is less reminiscent of some of his famous gold works (think The Kiss and Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer), and more like the metallic sheen of Judith and the Head of Holofernes.

I’m in love with the light. How it
spills across all it touches, burns
& blooms. I cave. I parade. I quail.
For somewhere I’ve set sail,
three sheets to the wind. Don’t
tell my mother where I been.

Kevin Young, from “Three Poems to Amy Winehouse,” The Paris Review (Spring 2013)

I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string.
I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.

Sylvia Plath, from Three Women (via violentwavesofemotion)

I, who have seen you amid the primal things,
Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.

Ezra Pound, “Francesca”  (via jatigi)

(Source: oofpoetry, via seven72)

apoetreflects:

Crosby & Nash

"Lay Me Down"

Crosby & Nash LP

*     *     *     *     *

driving out through the windmills
and some of them were still
sometimes it’s hard to catch the wind
and bend it to your will

even though it’s hard to know
just how the story ends
the road is long and takes its time
on that you can depend

lay me down in the river
and wash this place away
break me down like sand from a stone
maybe i’ll be whole again one day

(via woodsong)

1 day ago - 50
likeafieldmouse:

Andrew Wyeth - Adrift (1982)

likeafieldmouse:

Andrew Wyeth - Adrift (1982)

We descended gently toward boats
to hear the boatswain’s
song sung from the capstan, about how life intrudes
on the plodding waves

and no one is certain of desiccation
as a great marrow bone is gnawed.
It is as though a feast had happened
in plain sight. We forgot about the
treasure, forgot it had happened
among the madness of whirling wheat.

John Ashbery, from “Obsidian House,” The Paris Review (Fall 2002)

There are bodies,
not greatly extended, called seas nevertheless,
because of their depth and

violence.

Keith Waldrop, from “Shipwreck in Haven, Part Four,” Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy (University of California Press, 2009)

I will clamber through the clouds and exist.

John Keats in a letter to Benjamin Robert Haydon, dated 8, April 1818.  (via wordsnquotes)

(via endymiondreaming)

What scraps will our children remember of us
to whom our story is simple
and they themselves the heroes of it?

Linda Pastan, from “Eve on Her Deathbed,” The Paris Review (Spring 2010)

Memories
Are hunting horns whose sound dies in the breeze

Guillaume Apollinaire, from “Cors de Chasse,” The Paris Review (Fall 2012)

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

Vladimir Nabokov, from Speak, Memory (via stxxz)

a-pair-of-ragged-claws:

"But to return to the cradle rocking. I think
Nabokov had it wrong. This is the abyss.
That’s why babies howl at birth,
and why the dying so often reach
for something only they can apprehend.

— Jane Kenyon, from “Reading Aloud to My Father,” Poetry (February 1995)

(via mutamur)