Alexandra
Is anything unclear?
is(being)
in fewer words
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Posted on 8th Sep at 4:28 AM, with 5,140 notes

alsothesetumbleweeds:

(details) Claude Monet - Le Givre à Giverny

….

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

Posted on 24th Aug at 3:49 PM, with 1,219 notes
alsothesetumbleweeds:

Bob Dylan, "Ballad of a Thin Man"

As Bob Dylan would say in effect, “Something has happened, but it’s not something new. “It is, in fact, a replication of what was unbeknownst to you because, Mr. Jones, you don’t know very much of what was, unbeknownst to you, there always—as Derrida says—already: something that emerges but at the same time presses on us its status as having already been there,
always already been there.

alsothesetumbleweeds:

Bob Dylan, "Ballad of a Thin Man"

As Bob Dylan would say in effect, “Something has happened, but it’s not something new. “It is, in fact, a replication of what was unbeknownst to you because, Mr. Jones, you don’t know very much of what was, unbeknownst to you, there always—as Derrida says—already: something that emerges but at the same time presses on us its status as having already been there,

always already been there.

Posted on 23rd Aug at 2:56 PM, with 982 notes
I AM IN NEED OF MUSIC… (literally)
I am in need of music that would flowOver my fretful, feeling fingertips,Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,A song to fall like water on my head,And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!There is a magic made by melody:A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and coolHeart, that sinks through fading colors deepTo the subaqueous stillness of the sea,And floats forever in a moon-green pool,Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep. 
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I AM IN NEED OF MUSIC… (literally)

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep. 

Posted on 23rd Aug at 1:10 PM, with 273 notes
historicaltimes:

A Frenchman points to a spot in front of the Eiffel Tower as he tells an American soldier where Adolf Hitler stood in June, 1940, after the Germans occupied the French capital, Aug 28, 1944 - .jpg
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Anecdote of the Jar 
Wallace Stevens
I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it, And sprawled around, no longer wild. The jar was round upon the ground And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion every where. The jar was gray and bare. It did not give of bird or bush, Like nothing else in Tennessee.
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historicaltimes:

A Frenchman points to a spot in front of the Eiffel Tower as he tells an American soldier where Adolf Hitler stood in June, 1940, after the Germans occupied the French capital, Aug 28, 1944 - .jpg

Read More

Anecdote of the Jar 

Wallace Stevens

I placed a jar in Tennessee, 
And round it was, upon a hill. 
It made the slovenly wilderness 
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it, 
And sprawled around, no longer wild. 
The jar was round upon the ground 
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion every where. 
The jar was gray and bare. 
It did not give of bird or bush, 
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

Posted on 15th Aug at 3:11 PM, with 293 notes

theparisreview: [….]



EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAYINTENTION TO ESCAPE…I think I will learn some beautiful langauage, useless for commercial Purposes, work hard at that. I think I will learn the Latin name of every song-bird, not     only in America but wherever they sing. (Shun meditation, though; invite the controversial:Is the world flat? Do bats eat cats?) By digging hard I     might deflect that river, my mind, that uncontrollable thing,Turgid and yellow, strong to overflow its banks in spring,     carrying away bridges;A bed of pebbles now, through which there trickles one     clear narrow stream, following a course henceforth nefast─ Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.THE ROAD TO THE PASTIt is this that you get for being so far-sighted. Not so many yearsFor the myopic, as for me,The delightful shape, implored and hard of heart, proceedingInto the past unheeding,(No wave of the hand, no backward look to seeIf I still stand there) clear and precise along that road appears.The trees that edge that road run parallelFor eyes like mine past many towns, past hell seen plainly;All that has happened shades that street;Children all day, even the awkward, the ungainlyOf mind, work out on paper problems more abstruse:Before those hedges meet.(Poetry magazine, October 1938)

theparisreview: [….]

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

INTENTION TO ESCAPE…
I think I will learn some beautiful langauage, useless for commercial 
Purposes, work hard at that. 
I think I will learn the Latin name of every song-bird, not
     only in America but wherever they sing. 
(Shun meditation, though; invite the controversial:
Is the world flat? Do bats eat cats?) By digging hard I
     might deflect that river, my mind, that uncontrollable thing,
Turgid and yellow, strong to overflow its banks in spring,
     carrying away bridges;
A bed of pebbles now, through which there trickles one
     clear narrow stream, following a course henceforth nefast─ 

Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.


THE ROAD TO THE PAST
It is this that you get for being so far-sighted. Not so many years
For the myopic, as for me,
The delightful shape, implored and hard of heart, proceeding
Into the past unheeding,
(No wave of the hand, no backward look to see
If I still stand there) clear and precise along that road appears.

The trees that edge that road run parallel
For eyes like mine past many towns, past hell seen plainly;
All that has happened shades that street;
Children all day, even the awkward, the ungainly
Of mind, work out on paper problems more abstruse:
Before those hedges meet.

(Poetry magazine, October 1938)

Posted on 13th Aug at 6:27 AM, with 115,387 notes

by: Casey Garner

In the Beginning

In the beginning was the three-pointed star, 
One smile of light across the empty face, 
One bough of bone across the rooting air, 
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun, 
And, burning ciphers on the round of space, 
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun. 

In the beginning was the pale signature, 
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile, 
And after came the imprints on the water, 
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon; 
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail 
Touched the first cloud and left a sign. 

In the beginning was the mounting fire 
That set alight the weathers from a spark, 
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower, 
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas, 
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock 
The secret oils that drive the grass. 

In the beginning was the word, the word 
That from the solid bases of the light 
Abstracted all the letters of the void; 
And from the cloudy bases of the breath 
The word flowed up, translating to the heart 
First characters of birth and death. 

In the beginning was the secret brain. 
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought 
Before the pitch was forking to a sun; 
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve, 
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light 
The ribbed original of love.

Posted on 8th Aug at 2:24 AM, with 113 notes
theparisreview: poet’s grotto
"As Planned," Frank O’Hara
After the first glass of vodkayou can accept just about anythingof life even your own mysteriousnessyou think it is nice that a boxof matches is purple and brown and is calledLa Petite and comes from Swedenfor they are words that you know and thatis all you know words not their feelingsor what they mean and you write becauseyou know them not because you understand thembecause you don’t and you are stupid and lazyand will never be great but you dowhat you know because what else is there?
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theparisreview: poet’s grotto

"As Planned," Frank O’Hara

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don’t and you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

Posted on 8th Aug at 1:50 AM, with 94,331 notes
Honor a going thing, goldfinch, corporation, tree,
          morality: any working order,
       animate or inanimate: it
 
has managed directed balance,
          the incoming and outgoing energies are working right,
       some energy left to the mechanism,
 
some ash, enough energy held
          to maintain the order in repair,
       assure further consumption of entropy,
 
expending energy to strengthen order:
          honor the persisting reactor,
       the container of change, the moderator: the yellow
 
bird flashes black wing-bars
          in the new-leaving wild cherry bushes by the bay,
       startles the hawk with beauty,
 
flitting to a branch where
          flash vanishes into stillness,
       hawk addled by the sudden loss of sight:
 
honor the chemistries, platelets, hemoglobin kinetics,
          the light-sensitive iris, the enzymic intricacies
       of control,
 
the gastric transformations, seed
          dissolved to acrid liquors, synthesized into
       chirp, vitreous humor, knowledge,
 
blood compulsion, instinct: honor the
          unique genes,
       molecules that reproduce themselves, divide into
 
sets, the nucleic grain transmitted
          in slow change through ages of rising and falling form,
       some cells set aside for the special work, mind
 
or perception rising into orders of courtship,
          territorial rights, mind rising
       from the physical chemistries
 
to guarantee that genes will be exchanged, male
          and female met, the satisfactions cloaking a deeper
       racial satisfaction:
 
heat kept by a feathered skin:
          the living alembic, body heat maintained (bunsen
       burner under the flask)
 
so the chemistries can proceed, reaction rates
          interdependent, self-adjusting, with optimum
       efficiency—the vessel firm, the flame
 
staying: isolated, contained reactions! the precise and
          necessary worked out of random, reproducible,
       the handiwork redeemed from chance, while the
 
goldfinch, unconscious of the billion operations
          that stay its form, flashes, chirping (not a
       great songster) in the bay cherry bushes wild of leaf.

A. R. Ammons, “Mechanism” from Collected Poems: 1951-1971. Listen to it read by poet at Poetry Foundation.

Posted on 5th Aug at 1:20 AM, with 1,561 notes
4dele: untitled by voldy92 on Flickr.

"Song for the Last Act," from The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968

BY LOUISE BOGAN


Now that I have your face by heart, I look   
Less at its features than its darkening frame   
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,   
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook.   
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show   
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.
Now that I have your face by heart, I look.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read   
In the black chords upon a dulling page   
Music that is not meant for music’s cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.   
The staves are shuttled over with a stark   
Unprinted silence. In a double dream   
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.   
The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;   
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps   
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.
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4deleuntitled by voldy92 on Flickr.

"Song for the Last Act," from The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968

BY LOUISE BOGAN

Now that I have your face by heart, I look   
Less at its features than its darkening frame   
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,   
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook.   
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show   
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.

Now that I have your face by heart, I look.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read   
In the black chords upon a dulling page   
Music that is not meant for music’s cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.   
The staves are shuttled over with a stark   
Unprinted silence. In a double dream   
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.   
The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;   
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps   
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.
Posted on 29th Jul at 3:41 PM, with 13 notes
Elizabeth Bishop, Uncollected Poems (1933-1969), “The Flood” |
|It finds the park first, and the treesturn wavery and wet;but all the extinguished traffic showsthat it will drown the steeples yet.|The battered houses, rows of brick,are clear as quartz; the color thinsto amethyst, — the chimney-potsand weather-vanes stick up like fins.|And slowly down the fluid streetsthe cars and trolleys, goggle-eyed,enamlled bright like gaping fish,drift home on the suburban tide.|Along the airy upper beachto the minutely glittering skytwo sand-pipers have stepped, and leftfour star-prints high and dry.|Beyond the town, subaqueous,the green hills change to green-mossed shells;and at the church, to warn the ships above,eight times they ring the bells.
|
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Elizabeth Bishop, Uncollected Poems (1933-1969), “The Flood” 
|

|
It finds the park first, and the trees
turn wavery and wet;
but all the extinguished traffic shows
that it will drown the steeples yet.
|
The battered houses, rows of brick,
are clear as quartz; the color thins
to amethyst, — the chimney-pots
and weather-vanes stick up like fins.
|
And slowly down the fluid streets
the cars and trolleys, goggle-eyed,
enamlled bright like gaping fish,
drift home on the suburban tide.
|
Along the airy upper beach
to the minutely glittering sky
two sand-pipers have stepped, and left
four star-prints high and dry.
|
Beyond the town, subaqueous,
the green hills change to green-mossed shells;
and at the church, to warn the ships above,
eight times they ring the bells.

|

Posted on 29th Jul at 3:20 PM, with 8 notes
(photo-graph by kasperpalsnov )
Elizabeth Bishop, “Sonnet” 
|
Caught — the bubblein the spirit-level,a creature divided;and the compass needlewobbling and wavering,undevided.Freed — the brokenthermometer’s mercuryrunning away;and the rainbow-birdfrom the narrow bevelof the empty mirror,flying whereverit feels like.
|
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(photo-graph by kasperpalsnov )

Elizabeth Bishop, “Sonnet” 

|

Caught — the bubble
in the spirit-level,
a creature divided;
and the compass needle
wobbling and wavering,
undevided.
Freed — the broken
thermometer’s mercury
running away;
and the rainbow-bird
from the narrow bevel
of the empty mirror,
flying wherever
it feels like.

|

Posted on 29th Jul at 3:12 PM, with 1 note
Dear, my compassstill points northto wooden housesand blue eyes,|fairy-tales whereflaxen-headedyounger sonsbring home the goose,|love in hay-lofts,Protestants, andheavy drinkers…Springs are backward,|   but crab-applesripen to rubies,cranberriesto drops of blood,|and swans can paddleicy water,so hot the bloodin those webbed feet.|Cold as it is, we’dgo to bed, dear,early, but neverto keep warm. |
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Dear, my compass
still points north
to wooden houses
and blue eyes,
|
fairy-tales where
flaxen-headed
younger sons
bring home the goose,
|
love in hay-lofts,
Protestants, and
heavy drinkers…
Springs are backward,
|   
but crab-apples
ripen to rubies,
cranberries
to drops of blood,
|
and swans can paddle
icy water,
so hot the blood
in those webbed feet.
|
Cold as it is, we’d
go to bed, dear,
early, but never
to keep warm. 
|

Posted on 27th Jul at 3:45 AM, with 6 notes




“Miracles”, Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)







Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge 
    of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love,     or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a     summer forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars     shining so quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in     spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is     spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
    the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
View high resolution
Miracles, Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge 
    of the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, 
or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a
summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars
shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in
spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is
spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves— the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?
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