word in hand

the poetry of flight

October 15, 2014 at 4:49pm
60,658 notes
Reblogged from writingsforwinter

Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.

— Kait Rokowski  

(Source: writingsforwinter, via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

October 5, 2014 at 1:05pm
14,699 notes
Reblogged from iphigenias

I am made for autumn. Summer and I have a fickle relationship, but everything about autumn is perfect to me. Wooly jumpers, Wellington boot, scarves, thin first, then thick, socks. The low slanting light, the crisp mornings, the chill in my fingers, those last warm sunny days before the rain and the wind. Her moody hues and subdued palate punctuated every now and again by a brilliant orange, scarlet or copper goodbye. She is my true love.

— A recipe for Rowan Jelly by Alys Fowler (via pureblyss)

(Source: iphigenias, via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

September 28, 2014 at 7:04pm
766 notes
Reblogged from fables-of-the-reconstruction

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

— Carl Sandburg, from section “Autumn Movement” of “Redhaw Winds,” Poetry (October 1918)

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via apoetreflects)

September 27, 2014 at 1:10pm
3,020 notes
Reblogged from catteine

I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room
where everyone finally gets what they want.
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made
of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is
the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar
cube…We were in the gold room where everyone
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you
want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me. Here I am
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,
my silent night, just mash your lips against me.
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.

— Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain 

(Source: catteine, via girlinlondon)

September 12, 2014 at 9:38am
2,143 notes
Reblogged from poetrysociety

From a special edition of 15 copies of Frank O’Hara’s Meditations In An Emergency (1957), which included an original drawing/collage by Grace Hartigan.

via Yale Library

(Source: poetrysociety, via apoetreflects)

September 7, 2014 at 7:00pm
60 notes
Reblogged from memoryslandscape

This hour along the valley this light at the end
       of summer lengthening as it begins to go
this whisper in the tawny grass this feather floating
       in the air this house of half a life or so
this blue door open to the lingering sun this stillness
       echoing from the rooms like an unfinished sound
this fraying of voices at the edge of the village
       beyond the dusty gardens this breath of knowing
without knowing anything this old branch from which
       years and faces go on falling this presence already
far away this restless alien in the cherished place
       this motion with no measure this moment peopled
with absences with everything that I remember here
       eyes the wheeze of the gate greetings birdsongs in winter
the heart dividing dividing and everything
       that has slipped my mind as I consider the shadow
all this has occurred to somebody else who has gone
       as I am told and indeed it has happened again
and again and I go on trying to understand
       how that could ever be and all I know of them
is what they felt in the light here in this late summer

W. S. Merwin, “Season,” from The Vixen (Alfred A. Knopf, 1996)

(Source: memoryslandscape, via apoetreflects)

August 28, 2014 at 11:55pm
1,076 notes
Reblogged from nevver


August 20, 2014 at 9:29pm
343 notes
Reblogged from petrichour

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. Nothing more than an empty house, the warm hazy weariness from a day spent setting strawberry runners in the sun, a glass of cool sweet milk, and a shallow dish of blueberries bathed in cream. When one is so tired at the end of a day one must sleep, and at the next dawn there are more strawberry runners to set, and so one goes on living, near the earth. At times like this I’d call myself a fool to ask for more…

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via girlinlondon)

(Source: petrichour, via girlinlondon)

101,030 notes
Reblogged from razorshapes

(Source: razorshapes, via wrongingmyrights)

August 12, 2014 at 12:31pm
41,795 notes
Reblogged from gnossienne