This is True

Poetry, Prose and Pictures - From Cairo, Egypt
garden-of-vegan:

Whole grain bagel with mashed avocado, fresh cherries, dark chocolate chips, and raw almonds.

My kind of meal!!

garden-of-vegan:

Whole grain bagel with mashed avocado, fresh cherries, dark chocolate chips, and raw almonds.

My kind of meal!!

There was no relief from being
human and so I turned to stone
and now there’s no relief
from being a stone. I didn’t
choose to be a stone.

Dianne Seuss, “Oh I’m A Stone,” from Wolf Lake, White Gown Blown Open. (via literarymiscellany)

(via literarymiscellany)

I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.

—Kahlo, Frida. The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait.  (via wordsnquotes)

(via deeplystained)

You are like night, calmed, constellated.Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.

—Pablo Neruda, I Like You Calm, As If You Were Absent  (via seulray)

(Source: stxxz.us, via howitzerliterarysociety)

It is June.
I am tired of being brave.

I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.

You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.

— Maya Angelou,1928-2014 (via sfmoma)

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.

This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.

And I will not be afraid
of your scars.

I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.

—Clementine von Radics, “Mouthful of Forever” (via larmoyante)

(via waitingforgzus-deactivated20140)

The way he looked at me made
me ache with poetry.

I think we should write more letters about the things that matter, and the things that last.  Because by the time the letter arrives and is read, the things that last will still be true.  We can chat and email about momentary things, but the forever things we should write letters about, and carve into stone and earth and the walls of our hearts.  That way we might forget less easily.  Because emails are just bytes and 1s and 0s, and letters are physical. We should create more artifacts of love.

All this naked sky
and you,
with your shaking hands,
too afraid to take your coat off.

The array of stars gone shy
and bashful
under the gaze of seven billion
watchful eyes.

You undress facing the window.

You think
the moon understands
what it means to feel
exposed; you think
the moon never turns her back
for a reason.

You think the moon
would kiss you like a southern solstice—
peel herself from the sky
and love you for every hour
that the sun’s up.

The array of stars
watch the outline of your naked
body through the glass.
They don’t love you the way
daytime TV says you’re supposed
to want to be loved.

All this naked sky, and
you—
with your shaking ribs,
you—
with your aching hands,
you—
too afraid to love the sunlight.

Decent Exposure, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

The best poetry is written naked.

"Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.”
— Virginia Woolf in a letter to Vita Sackville-West (January 1927)

Paris Review - Two Poems, May Sarton

May Sarton

Letter from Maine

Yes, I am home again, and alone.
Today wrote letters, then took my dog
Out through the sad November woods.
The leaves have fallen while I was away,
The ground is golden, while above
The maples are stripped of all color.
The ornamental cherries, red when I left,
Have paled now to translucent yellow.

Yes, I am home again but home has changed.
And I within this cultivated space
That I have made my own, feel at a loss,
Disoriented. All the safe doors
Have come unlocked and too much light
Has flooded every room. Where can I go?
Not toward you three thousand miles away
Lost in your own rich life, given me
For an hour.
Read between the lines.
Then meet me in the silence if you can,
The long silence of winter when I shall
Make poems out of nothing, out of loss,
And at times hear your healing laughter.

Nina Simone Feeling Good

Watermelon juice dripping running

Down chin arms legs
Sticky hands reddened mouth
We’re spitting seeds over the edge of the world

And sitting in the sunny spaces on the balcony
Singing with Nina with all soul

Yeah, freedom is mine, and I know I feel
You know what I mean, don’t ya know
It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me, yeah
And I’m feeling good