word in hand

the poetry of flight

April 23, 2014 at 4:25pm
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Once they were sitting at the kitchen table opposite each other. To his right and to her left was a window. Furious at something he drew his right hand across his body and lashed out. Half way there at full speed he realised it was a window he would be hitting and braked. For a fraction of a second his open palm touched the glass, beginning simultaneously to draw back. The window starred and crumpled slowly two floors down. His hand miraculously uncut. It had acted exactly like a whip violating the target and still free, retreating from the outline of a star. She was delighted by the performance. Surprised he examined his fingers.

— Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

April 17, 2014 at 1:29am
1,047 notes
Reblogged from nevver

What we’re reading


What we’re reading

April 9, 2014 at 3:49pm
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The Rumpus Late Night Poetry Show

April 6, 2014 at 11:22pm
1,859 notes
Reblogged from habitofbeing

The Church is founded on Peter who denied Christ three times and couldn’t walk on the water by himself. You are expecting his successors to walk on the water. All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful.

— Flannery O’Connor, letter to Cecil Dawkins, 9 Dec 58 

(Source: habitofbeing, via likethemountvins)

4,248 notes
Reblogged from nevver
T.S. Eliot

T.S. Eliot

(via nevver)

April 4, 2014 at 9:52am
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emily dickinson lives in my overhead light 

April 3, 2014 at 6:56pm
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Reblogged from notmattsiegel


Dorothy Wordsworth
by Jennifer Chang

The daffodils can go fuck themselves.
I’m tired of their crowds, yellow ranting
about the spastic sun that dines and shines
and shines. How are they any different

from me? I, too, have a big messy head
on a fragile stalk. I spin with the wind.
I flower and don’t apologize. There’s nothing
funny about good weather. O, spring again,

The critics nod. They know the old joy,
that wakeful quotidian, the dark plot
of future growing things, each one
labeled Narcissus nobilis or Jennifer Chang.

If I died falling from a helicopter, then
this would be an important poem. Then
the ex-boyfriends would swim to shore
declaiming their knowledge of my bulbous

youth. O, Flower, one said, why aren’t you
meat? But I won’t be another bashful shank.
The tulips have their nervous joie-de-vivre,
the lilacs their taunt. Fractious petals, stop

interrupting my poem with boring beauty.
All the boys are in the field gnawing raw
bones of ambition and calling it ardor. Who
the hell are they? This is a poem about war.

March 24, 2014 at 10:30pm
4,093 notes
Reblogged from theories-of

Joachim Coucke Today I Made Nothing

Joachim Coucke Today I Made Nothing

(Source: theories-of, via youngfolksociety)

March 20, 2014 at 9:43pm
1,470 notes
Reblogged from euo

Jenny Holzer


Jenny Holzer

(via blue-voids)

100 notes
Reblogged from mrmicrowave

The day after I turned 18,
I cried into the shoulder of an anonymous fishing rod.
The sky has never said “No,
this is not for you.”

— Mr. Microwave:   (via uutpoetry)

(via uutpoetry)