peasantwisdom asked: I don't know if our schedule were just off-synch, or if you've been away, but it's nice to see you back. I am always happy to see your posts.
aw, thank you! i’ve been away the last week in venice, and now i’m in london. it’s nice to be (partly) back :)
Moths, and all sorts of ugly creatures,” replied Estella, with a glance towards him, “hover about a lighted candle. Can the candle help it?– Charles Dickens
i finally found the perfect caption for this photo i took a few months ago
The rain to the wind said,
'You push and I'll pelt.'
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged—though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.”
you re-evaluate everything when something big and new happens to you. now i’m in love and have had good sex, i look at everything the world has said about those two things with new eyes, and am shocked that they are the same things that were said before they had happened to me. the cynicism is still there, and all the sad endings, but my story feels first and foremost, it feels as if everything should be rewritten according to me.
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.– Samuel Beckett
he’s american, and he saunters into a second-hand bookstore that specializes in first editions. after a cursory look at the shelves, he strikes up a conversation with the reserved english man behind the counter, telling him how he’s an actor who’s come into a lot of money that he wants to spend on books, “thousands of ‘em”, and that the seller at the last place was so rude he had to walk out. he just wants someone to listen to him when he talks. when he leaves, he calls behind him that he’ll be sending in a big order soon, but neither the bookstore owner nor i believe it.
in fact, there is no need for me to be
a smidgen prettier than the amount of pretty
which would tempt you to place
your hands on my waist and your lips on my face.
the torch you lift in your hand– Pablo Neruda
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
the-big-striptease asked: I'm feeling a bit lonely and see you sometimes write poems about other people. Could you write a poem about me? :3
in venice we lifted our glasses to her
although neither of us have had the pleasure
of meeting her yet. still, we owe her one
(i can’t disclose the details for discretion).
right now, she and i are living very differently.
she’s at college, where she’s allowed to be
promiscuous, dangerous, get out of hand.
my relationship and her one-night-stands
are polar opposites, it’s true, but perhaps
we’re not so different. let’s count the overlaps:
she speaks with a not-quite-american accent
and sometimes over facebook we both lament
the eternal coldness of the brits, although
both of us fall in love with them. we know
we are stranded somewhat between
birth country and life-country. we’ve seen
how lonely it can get. i’ve been bad places,
so has she. sometimes we hate our faces,
sometimes our bodies—dislike our looks
(though she’s gorgeous). we both love books,
but what is closest about sarah and me
is that each of us has turned to poetry.
(hope you’re feeling less lonely, darling <3)
In shallow shoals English soles do it—– Cole Porter
Goldfish in the privacy of bowls do it—
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.
my favourite colour is now dim mosaic gold.
i would like the be the glimmer in a saint’s eye,
the purest representation of heaven there is
(forget the cherubs, the pink-tinged cumulus).
it is flat, yes, but endless dark, endless light.
it needs only a little light to scintillate:
a thin shaft poured into san marco basilia.
i want to name my daughter after dim gold,
if there’s a word for that, and her middle name
will be the dark blue cobalt that pairs it so well,
and seems almost—however dim—to glow from within.
Our whisper woke no clocks,– W.H. Auden
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did.
poets in bed,
when a piece of music borrows a very recognizable bit from another piece it “quotes” it, just as poems allude to each other. i love this type of back-and-forth.