Perhaps the only difference between me and other people is that I’ve always demanded more from the sunset. More spectacular colors when the sun hit the horizon. That’s perhaps my only sin.
— Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) in Nymphomaniac Vol. 1
…her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil inscrutability of her visage: the terribility of her isolated dominant resplendent propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm: the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendour, when visible: her attraction, when invisible.
James Joyce, from Ulysses (via violentwavesofemotion)
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)
Reblogged from Soaked In Soul

Rarified joy

Pulling notes of indie music
From my hair
Swirling, twirling
Suspended colours of poetry

Dancing between
The flight of clouds
Singing, howling
To the trembling sky

Self doubt

I tried
To say what i need
To say,

But i
Or nothing right?

My existence

I am never
But i am

The weakness
Strength to be

But am I
The thrill is gone babe
I need
My ingratitude

I look at myself
And i hurt
So i hurt

Light gets held hostage by distant winds
Waves , they are another to the still green.
And I am in Pomelo’s bitterness
With Butterfly pea flower eyelids,
drinking from the river gone violet
This , my uttered perception.

May my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple.
— E. E. Cummings


A blur shade of sky’s despair

The final glide of the bird before rain
Distance between the lamp
And your pursed lips of shame
Quivering with speechless pain
That colour of the night
With no name

The rain’s minuscule million bites

Your skin,
the clouds descending at whim

Almost bare tree with its
Brave green, what is left of the leaves

Minutes before the blind hour
I urge the orchids to come alive
Before foreboding hills,
And the fear of the sea


My sides are withering
With the anticipation of rain

I want to speak to the moon
Between leaves’ almost whispers

Stay up with me
This night is amiss with
The echo of wooden roots

An ego battle of control and freedom
My eyes betray my feet

I am made of earthquakes
Giving away with wind
Sinking away in years


Knotted and holding ; internal injuries of A lone hurt walker

Forward, backward ; light marching on a half moon sky

Thumb sized hills ; a darker degree of separation

A turquoise bottle opener ; reminder of wounded abandonment