What makes us leave what we love best?
What is it inside us that keeps erasing itself
When we need it most,
That sends us into uncertainty for its own sake
And holds us flush there
                                    until we begin to love it
And have to begin again?
What is it within our own lives we decline to live
Whenever we find it,
                                     making our days unendurable,
And nights almost visionless?
I still don’t know yet, but I do it.
— Charles Wright, “25 – 29 August 1984,” The World of the Ten Thousand Things: Poems 1980-1990. Farrar, Straus and Giroux (September 1, 1991)
Reblogged from Moriah Pearson
The writing of poems
and the living of life
seem to require
paying hard attention
to any and everything,
and experiencing
a kind of mental orgasm.
Yikes! Do I
mean that?
Unfortunately, I’m afraid
I did, dipped to scoop
an idea from the roadside,
the mental roadside.

'First Draft' : Collected Poems by Ron Padgett

Reblogged from { lux et amor }
Tags: the greys
I am my time
— by Kripi 
But mostly I just stand in the dark field,
in the middle of the world, breathing —
Reblogged from //HENN▲//
wordsnquotes:

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Reblogged from WORDS N QUOTES
levantineviper:

Rings of Saturn
Image creidt: NASA’s Voyager 2 Spacecraft

levantineviper:

Rings of Saturn

Image creidt: NASA’s Voyager 2 Spacecraft

Three Peaks

" A day without writing tastes of ashes" : Simone De Beauvoir

I am iron heavy lumbago
But the trees are in constancy
of their lenghthiness
the wavering of purposity and misty indifference

turn this pain around so I can
curve it on itself like the moors

I want to tread on the lulling landscapes
sinking ankles in grasslands

But the spine has rooted desires
why must the bones hold me so
whilst my liber mind is the night wind
in the leaves and toes the same

take this rock from my back
and add it to the the three peaks
scattered in my vision now

Three Peaks

" A day without writing tastes of ashes" : Simone De Beauvoir

I am iron heavy lumbago

But the trees are in constancy

of their lenghthiness

the wavering of purposity and misty indifference

turn this pain around so I can

curve it on itself like the moors

I want to tread on the lulling landscapes

sinking ankles in grasslands

But the spine has rooted desires

why must the bones hold me so

whilst my liber mind is the night wind

in the leaves and toes the same

take this rock from my back

and add it to the the three peaks

scattered in my vision now

FictionFriction
Buses, trains and lavender trails
each ticket held, collected
Till the fade of autumn
Rolling field or rust of sea
Rolling, lulling memory mist

Hair hues are stories
Ask,listen, change
Smell my currents
I will not let memory make me
But my texture is mutitudnal;
Graze of sandstone
Cool of flint
Electricity of tangerine hair

The resistance to loss of the unknown
But tremor of the familiar creaks

FictionFriction

Buses, trains and lavender trails

each ticket held, collected

Till the fade of autumn

Rolling field or rust of sea

Rolling, lulling memory mist

Hair hues are stories

Ask,listen, change

Smell my currents

I will not let memory make me

But my texture is mutitudnal;

Graze of sandstone

Cool of flint

Electricity of tangerine hair

The resistance to loss of the unknown

But tremor of the familiar creaks

First Draft
Hello white sheet
My stubborn obsession  
Fingers sinking deep,
Jadeliete and I;
Crystallised dreams-
Breaking on paper and space
Hidden
Heaving
Heart

Grey sugarless morning,
Light is anticipation
For the closed eyed drifters
sage swirling
ssswishhh

First Draft

Hello white sheet

My stubborn obsession  

Fingers sinking deep,

Jadeliete and I;

Crystallised dreams-

Breaking on paper and space

Hidden

Heaving

Heart

Grey sugarless morning,

Light is anticipation

For the closed eyed drifters

sage swirling

ssswishhh