Nan Goldin, Honda Brothers in cherry blossom storm, Tokyo, 1994
(Source: whitemystere, via chenchenwrites)
2:43 pm • 17 April 2014 • 8,179 notes
“You have to have access to parts of your imagination that, in your life outside of being a writer, would be locked away. And for good reason—you would be committed if every inch of yourself was manifested in your daily walk. People would assume that you’re crazy. Being able to hone every inch of yourself, every part of who you are, and put it into words, means that you are actually making use of it.”
— Jericho Brown, interviewed by Kendra DeColo for Nashville Review (via bostonpoetryslam)
12:34 am • 16 April 2014 • 24 notes
“The first day it feels like fall
I want to tell my secrets
recklessly until there is nothing
you don’t know that would make
your heart change years from now.
How foolish we are to believe
we might outlive this distance.
I don’t know names for things
in the prairie, where the expanse
of light and the hissing of tall stalks
make me move slowly,
like in another country before
I must share it with anyone.
In what do you believe?
In September’s slight motion
of particulars, in the weight of birds,
in lust, propulsion, maps
that lie.You should not have loved
me. Now: goldenrod, prairie-clover,
the ovate-leafed bluebell with its open
throat saying how did you expect
to feel? Colonies of prairie-smoke
and pods turning golden and papery,
the grassy plains iterating patience,
and things I cannot name.
Begin with apples reddening.
Begin with a woman touching
the cities in your feet. Hartford,
Anchorage, the Bronx. Did you ever
see yourself as more
than yourself? I walk into a part
of afternoon that deepens
inventing an endpoint
for sadness. Everyone is gone.
On the subject of deception,
where do you stand? There’s a chill
in the air and the flowers know,
the goddamned flowers, their loosed
color. Sometimes we are cruel
and we mean it. We author the house
with its threadbare linens, the false
miniatures of people saying look at me.
Will the landscape forgive you?
Is it yours to describe? What
is the sound inside your mouth?
I’m surrounded by grasslands
in every direction. The sound
is a clamoring, because desire
is never singular and we want it
this way. We want it easy.
I have already let go
of summer. Here, the wind—
dispersal of seeds and story. Love,
there are things I cannot name.”
— Stacie Cassarino, from Midwest Eclogue (via violentwavesofemotion)
11:16 pm • 14 April 2014 • 322 notes
“Absence is a house so vast
that inside you will pass through its walls
and hang pictures on the air.”
— Pablo Neruda, excerpt from “Sonnet XCIV” (via larmoyante)
1:08 am • 8 April 2014 • 1,826 notes
Jennifer Strunge, Growth, 2008-9, recycled clothing, polyester stuffing, cardboard
(Source: irisnectar, via boundtothesea)
11:35 am • 5 April 2014 • 1,621 notes
The morning cup of coffee is important. Half-smiling, half-haggard TV housewives shuffle into kitchens in bathrobes warning: ‘don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee.” The laugh track roars and babbles, but it’s a commendable notion. The heat, the caffeine, the ritual awakening. Do you remember the commercials on TV – the old ones – for Folgers and Maxwell House? You were home, it was wintertime, and there was a swirling steam coming off the coffee, black. The strong aroma climbed stairs, and bodies, having survived the night, came to life. I don’t think we have those notions anymore. I don’t think we have those commercials anymore. I see people my age drinking Coca-Cola from cans in the morning. It’s deplorable. We’re losing our direction. It’s dangerous to go too long before having coffee in the morning. It’s no good for our culture. Buying a seven-dollar coffee, a cardboard tower, on your way to work is dangerous. So much could go wrong. You should have coffee in the house, in a mug, sitting in a chair, and almost immediately after waking up. The loss of this ritual could be the reason our culture’s in the state it’s in - aggressive and impatient, we make enemies of neighbors. Wake up, people, make your own coffee. Make it the way you like it and don’t talk to a fucking soul, or think a single thought, until you have.
I waited too long to have my coffee this morning.
11:32 am • 5 April 2014 • 23 notes
“Well, I think what happens at certain points in my poems is that language takes over, and I follow it. It just sounds right. And I trust the implication of what I’m saying, even though I’m not absolutely sure what it is that I’m saying. I’m just willing to let it be. Because if I were absolutely sure of whatever it was that I said in my poems, if I were sure, and could verify it and check it out and feel, yes, I’ve said what I intended, I don’t think the poem would be smarter than I am. I think the poem would be, finally, a reducible item. It’s this “beyondness,” that depth that you reach in a poem, that keeps you returning to it. And you wonder, The poem seemed so natural at the beginning, how did you get where you ended up? What happened? I mean, I like that, I like it in other people’s poems when it happens. I like to be mystified. Because it’s really that place which is unreachable, or mysterious, at which the poem becomes ours, finally, becomes the possession of the reader. I mean, in the act of figuring it out, of pursuing meaning, the reader is absorbing the poem, even though there’s an absence in the poem. But he just has to live with that. And eventually, it becomes essential that it exists in the poem, so that something beyond his understanding, or beyond his experience, or something that doesn’t quite match up with his experience, becomes more and more his. He comes into possession of a mystery, you know—which is something that we don’t allow ourselves in our lives.”
— Mark Strand, from The Art Of Poetry (via violentwavesofemotion)
12:37 pm • 4 April 2014 • 577 notes