parabola-magazine:

When I Met My Muse

I glanced at her and took my glasses
off - they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. “I am your own
way of looking at things,” she said. “When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation.” And I took her hand.

—William Stafford

chasingtailfeathers:

“To have imagination and taste, to love the best, to be carried by the contemplation of nature to a vivid faith in the ideal, all this is more, a great deal more, than any science can hope to be. The poets and philosophers who express this aesthetic experience and stimulate the same function in us by their example, do a greater service to mankind and deserve higher honor than the discoveries of historical truths.”

—George Santayana

(via apoetreflects)

I built for you a wagon, holding
a cherub for your entertainment.
It is for you, go ahead, do with it
what you want.

“What would I do with a cherub?
Why would I want such a thing?”

Well you see all angels normally
explode overhead before we ever
get a chance to really examine them
and check them out. So I was
thinking it would be really nice
to have this cherub here so you
could actually give it a go and
actually see one of these angels
up close and personal.

As you touch the cherub, it disintegrates
into a black slime of nothingness,
it sticks to your fingers, and unsure of
what is really the best thing to do when
you suddenly have slime of disintegrated
angel stuck on your fingers, you wipe
your hands on the side of your pants.

No no no! I cry. It seems ugly, nasty
thing, yes, but you must take it and
put it directly into your eyes! Don’t
waste it! Even the slime of a disintegrated
angel is more angel than most people
get to touch. Put it in your eyes!

Do it! Angel runs through everything
in your mind, all memory, feeling, desire
expectation, all images, all potential,
Angel pops out the back of your head
screeching like dynamite, trailing
stars and all of your old dreams.

(Stevie P)

Martin Heidegger

(via wood s lot)

Stefanie Krasnow
Panting for Breath on a Virtual Shore
wood s lot

whiskey river

parabola-magazine:

That I might know the innermost weave
of the world, witness
its dynamic and creation,
and stop rummaging around in words.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

slowboatdeadstock:

ED

Suddenly you realize that only what you have put into poems can be considered lived through. That is how you become a poet. And at that point you begin, consciously or otherwise, living the kind of life that is fraught with poetry. That is how you cease being human. The former happens abruptly, the latter gradually, both irrevocably.

- Vera Pavlova

(via: whiskey river)

Rainer Maria Rilke

Letters to a Young Poet

(via windupwords)

apoetreflects:

Painting: Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot, Le Coup de Vent, 1865

Wendell Berry

(via The Country Fucker)

marrowsounds:

Sami camp at Gleen - Johan Tirén 1891

Charles Bukowski, Marilyn Monroe

Dalai Lama

(via lisawhitehare)