April 14, 2012
"Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?"

John Keats, describing one of the most overlooked necessities of creativity: Grit. (via world-shaker)

(via world-shaker-deactivated2013092)

April 1, 2012

Cycnus, the son of Sthenelus witnessed this marvel, who though he was kin to you Phaethon, through his mother, was closer still in love. Now, though he had ruled the people and great cities of Liguria, he left his kingdom, and filled Eridanus’s green banks and streams, and the woods the sisters had become part of, with his grief. As he did so his voice vanished and white feathers hid his hair, his long neck stretched out from his body, his reddened fingers became webbed, wings covered his sides, and a rounded beak his mouth. So Cycnus became a new kind of bird, the swan. But he had no faith in Jupiter and the heavens, remembering the lightning bolt the god in his severity had hurled. He looked for standing water, and open lakes hating fire, choosing to live in floods rather than flames.

From Book II of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Cycnus (mourning the death of Phaeton)

März 5, 2012
At last the secret is out


At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the end,
the delicious story is ripe to tell
to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square
the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear,
there’s never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes,
the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer,
the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret,
a private reason for this.

W.H. Auden

(Quelle: the-stranger-self)

Dezember 18, 2011
Roll On

( Dntel Feat. Jenny Lewis )

From a begging man
To your father’s friend
And that cop who pulled me over on Beverly Grand
I’ve had a famous man
On his fire escape
And countless dinner dates

And a warm bed, well that’s something
But that alone just ain’t enough
So I roll on, roll on

But it’s just no fun
When your heart belongs to a son of a gun

A shooting rifle, a firing range
I’m pistol-whipped, I’ll never be the same
But I love him, yes I do
And he’s gonna do what he’s gonna do
So I roll on, roll on

When I knocked you down, you called my bluff
You pushed me over, fair enough
In high schools, hospitals, on holidays
I’ve seen your face in every goddamn state
My overdose, it was almost too late
You said it aged you when you saw my face

And a warm bed, well that was something
And history’s horse keeps on thumping
And it rolls on, rolls on

But it’s just no fun
When you hate the person you’ve become

Bitter, lonely, and isolated, before I know it I’ll be an old maid

But I love love, yes I do
Even when its weight cripples you
It rolls on, rolls on

I never loved that other man
He’s a fairy tale that I can’t have
And now I know how a fairy tale feels
You wanna marry me, you say that I’m the real deal

And I just don’t know how I got stuck
Guess there’s muscle memory for love
And if you try hard enough
You might once again call my bluff
Or you can roll on, roll on

But it’s just no fun
When your happiness is on the run
Jumping hurdles in life’s 10k,
It’s a marathon and love’s too late

But a warm bed is as good as it gets
Let’s settle down and have a couple of kids
And do like your parents did,
Or we can roll on, roll on, roll on

November 23, 2011
John Keats, “Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art”


Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art 
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death. 

(Submitted by freaaaktweetycheeks)

1:53pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZezTzxCIx4GK
Abgelegt unter: poetry 
Oktober 7, 2011
"Life is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about it."

— Oscar Wilde (via fine-and-bold)

(via mazamitla)

Oktober 6, 2011

Colin Farrell invites you to imagine Ireland…

…by reciting William Butler Yeats

When You are Old

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep     
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,     
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look     
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;     
How many loved your moments of glad grace,           
And loved your beauty with love false or true;     
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,     
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.     
And bending down beside the glowing bars,     
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled     
And paced upon the mountains overhead,     
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


September 23, 2011
Richard Garcia, “Autumn”


Both lying on our sides, making love in
spoon position when she’s startled, What’s that?
She means the enormous ship passing before you—
maybe not that large, is it a freighter

or a passenger ship?  But it seems huge in the dark
and it’s so close.  That’s a poem you say, D. H.
Lawrence—Have you built your ship of death,
have you? O build your ship of death,

For you will need it.  Right here it would be good 
if there were a small orchestra on board, you’d hear
them and say to her, That piece is called Autumn

that’s what the brave musicians played as the Titanic
went under—and then you could name this poem “Autumn.”
But no, the ship is silent, its white lights glow in the darkness.


September 7, 2011
Rainer Maria Rilke, “Archaic Torso of Apollo”


We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

(submitted by fatalieann

September 5, 2011


“I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.”

September 5, 2011
If I Could Tell You


Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

W.H. Auden

12:40am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZezTzx98bsmJ
Abgelegt unter: poetry W H Auden 
September 1, 2011
W. B. Yeats, “The Song of Wandering Aengus”


I went out to the hazel wood,  
Because a fire was in my head,  
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,  
And hooked a berry to a thread;  
And when white moths were on the wing,     
And moth-like stars were flickering out,  
I dropped the berry in a stream  
And caught a little silver trout.  

When I had laid it on the floor  
I went to blow the fire a-flame,  
But something rustled on the floor,  
And someone called me by my name:  
It had become a glimmering girl  
With apple blossom in her hair  
Who called me by my name and ran  
And faded through the brightening air.  

Though I am old with wandering  
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,  
I will find out where she has gone,  
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,  
And pluck till time and times are done,  
The silver apples of the moon,  
The golden apples of the sun.

(submitted by smithevanb

August 30, 2011
"We would rather be ruined than changed
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die."

— W. H. Auden, “The Age of Anxiety” (1948), Epilogue (via dhammanovice)

(Quelle: dhammanovice2)

August 27, 2011
"Some of the shabbiest fucking photography in the history of fuckin’ porn… but y’know what? I could give a fock! HHHHHHH"

— Colin James Farrell, a poet (via kyn)

(Quelle: 69kittykate69)