After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes

by Emily Dickinson

After great pain, a formal feeling comes
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone

This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow
First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go

likeafieldmouse:

Oliver McAvoy

likeafieldmouse:

Oliver McAvoy

Raven sits.

Journal entry of Gilbert White on February 28, 1769

from The Natural History of Selborne, Journals of Gilbert White

Poster of a Persian production of Samuel Beckett’s  Waiting for Godot

Poster of a Persian production of Samuel Beckett’s  Waiting for Godot

We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.
Tom Stoppard - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
yama-bato:

Black Floating over White
1952  Clarence John Laughlin   Born: Lake Charles, Louisiana 1905   Died: New Orleans, Louisiana 1985  gelatin silver print sheet: 9 3/4 x 7 3/4 in. (24.7 x 19.7 cm.) Smithsonian American Art Museum Gift of Ruth and Jacob Kainen 1988.15.20

yama-bato:

Black Floating over White

1952 Clarence John Laughlin Born: Lake Charles, Louisiana 1905  Died: New Orleans, Louisiana 1985  gelatin silver print sheet: 9 3/4 x 7 3/4 in. (24.7 x 19.7 cm.) Smithsonian American Art Museum Gift of Ruth and Jacob Kainen 1988.15.20

Through a Glass Darkly

by Michael Symmons Roberts

Mist can be a form of mercy,
all precision gone, all detail lost.

Cataracted hawks hunt woods
for motion-blur, then stoop

into the slipstream of their prey.
I pray for days like these,

when cars are lit cortèges.
As for oceans, fog is respite

from the ache of holding surface
as a clear line named horizon.

Forensic summer gone, now we
live in close-up: flaked face of brick

frostbitten, verdigris and icicles
on statues. A world drawn tight.

Look up: stars are gone. It’s just us.

From Drysalter (Cape)

mythologyofblue:

Interior of Port Hole Window, Looking North - Glassmeyer Apartment Building, 2712-2718 Park Avenue, Cincinnati, Hamilton County, OH (From the Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs) (via billdomonkos)

mythologyofblue:

Interior of Port Hole Window, Looking North - Glassmeyer Apartment Building, 2712-2718 Park Avenue, Cincinnati, Hamilton County, OH (From the Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs) (via billdomonkos)

You have forgotten all you ever knew: books, doctrines
symphonies; whole cultures are unwritten. That hot breeze
tastes of nothing. Turn round. Drop to all fours. Now run.
from The Road Retaken / Drysalter by Michael Symmons Robert
mythologyofblue:

Joanna Andraos & Caroline Tabet, Untitled, n.d. + (via uncertaintimes)

mythologyofblue:

Joanna Andraos & Caroline Tabet, Untitled, n.d. + (via uncertaintimes)

When I, in a helmet of smoke,
come back to my senses,
my bird, my nighttime ally,
when I’m ablaze in the night
the dark grove crackles
and I hammer the sparks from my limbs.

And when I stay ablaze as I am,
loved by the flame
until the resin streams out of the trunks,
drips over the wounds and
spins the earth warm into thread
(and though you rob my heart at night,
my bird of belief, my bird of faith!)
the watchtower moves into brightness
where you, tranquil now,
alight in magnificent peace—
whatever comes to pass.

Ingeborg Bachmann, from “My Bird” (thank you theparisreview)
Original Photo by Can Dagarslani (thank you disputnik)

Original Photo by Can Dagarslani (thank you disputnik)

Every love affair is an attempt to thwart fate, it’s a naive illusion of brief immortality
Gaito Gazdanov - The Spectre of Alexander Wolf

(Quelle: belleshaw, via yama-bato)

For days and weeks on end one racks one’s brains to no avail, and, if asked, one could not say whether one goes on writing purely out of habit, or a craving for admiration, or because one knows not how to do anything other, or out of sheer wonderment, despair or outrage, any more than one could say whether writing renders one more perceptive or more insane. Perhaps we all lose our sense of reality to the precise degree to which we are engrossed in our own work, and perhaps that is why we see in the increasing complexity of our mental constructs a means for greater understanding, even while intuitively we know that we shall never be able to fathom the imponderables that govern our course through life?
W.G. Sebald - The Rings of Saturn