1. lelongdutemps:

Life is elsewhere
2008
Sohrab Hura
via

    lelongdutemps:

    Life is elsewhere

    2008

    Sohrab Hura

    via

    (via rawforms)

  2. "With greedy hands he digs for treasures and is happy if he finds worms"
    - Ivan Turgenev in a letter to Stasov, 1872 (via theultimateenigma)

    (via russkayaliteratura)

  3. midnightmartinis:

him - by elfie l.

    midnightmartinis:

    him - by elfie l.

  4. Lullaby

    Birth I gave you in a desert
    not by chance,
    for no king would ever hazard
    its expanse.

    Seeking you in it, I figure
    won’t be wise
    since its winter cold is bigger
    than its size.

    As you suck my breast, this vastness,
    all this width,
    feeds your gaze the human absence
    it’s filled with.

    Grow accustomed to the desert
    as to fate,
    lest you find it omnipresent
    much too late.

    Some get toys, in piles and layers,
    wrapped or bound.
    You, my baby, have to play with
    all the sand.

    See that star, at terrifying
    height, aglow?
    Say, this void just helps it, eyeing
    you below.

    Grow accustomed to the desert.
    Uniform
    underfoot, for all it isn’t,
    it’s most firm.

    In it, fate rejects a phantom
    faint or gross:
    one can tell for miles a mountain
    by a cross.

    Paths one sees here are not really
    human paths
    but the centuries’ which freely
    through it pass.

    Grow accustomed to the desert:
    flesh is not —
    as the speck would sigh, wind-pestered —
    all you’ve got.

    Keep this secret, child, for later.
    That, I guess,
    may just help you in a greater
    emptiness.

    Which is like this one, just ever-
    lasting; and
    in it love for you shows where
    it might end.

    Grow accustomed to the desert
    and the star
    pouing down its incandescent
    rays, which are

    just a lamp to guide the treasured
    child who’s late,
    lit by someone whom that desert
    taught to wait.

    Joseph Brodsky

  5. "toska [tohs-kah]"
    - (noun) A Russian word – “Vladmir Nabokov describes it best: ‘No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.’” (via ancient-serpent)

    (Source: matadornetwork.com, via ancient-serpent)

  6. Poetic term: lullaby

    poetsorg:

    Joseph Brodsky’s poignant late poem to his infant daughter, “Lullaby” (“Birth I gave you in a desert”) echoes one of W. H. Auden’s most beautiful early lyrics, “Lullaby” (“Lay your sleeping head, my love”).  Reetika Vazirani (1962–2003) wrote a startling and inconsolable three-line poem called “Lullaby” (2002), which wounds:

    "I would not sing you to sleep.
    I would press my lips to your ear
    and hope the terror in my heart stirs you.”

     Edward Hirsch on this week’s poetic term: Lullaby.

  7. baptisedinblackwater:

"… a language in which every pronouncing of a word starts with a blind spot … " R\A\W M\A\T\E\R\I\A\L \ # 1563 \ Max Kuiper  \ 10\aug\14

    baptisedinblackwater:

    "… a language in which every pronouncing of a word starts with a blind spot … "

    R\A\W M\A\T\E\R\I\A\L
    \ # 1563
    \ Max Kuiper
    \ 10\aug\14

    (via rawforms)

  8. (Source: vietakadziesma)

  9. invisiblestories:

    “Cities have often been compared to language: you can read a city, it’s said, as you read a book. But the metaphor can be inverted. The journeys we make during the reading of a book trace out, in some way, the private spaces we inhabit. There are texts that will always be our dead-end streets; fragments that will be bridges; words that will be like the scaffolding that protects fragile constructions. T.S. Eliot: a plant growing in the debris of a ruined building; Salvador Novo: a tree-lined street transformed into an expressway; Tomas Segovia: a boulevard, a breath of air; Roberto Bolano: a rooftop terrace; Isabel Allende: a (magically real) shopping mall; Gilles Deleuze: a summit; and Jacques Derrida: a pothole. Robert Walser: a chink in the wall, for looking through to the other side; Charles Baudelaire: a waiting room; Hannah Arendt: a tower, an Archimedean point; Martin Heidegger: a cul-de-sac; Walter Benjamin: a one-way street walked down against the flow.”

    — Valeria Luiselli, “Relingos: The Cartography of Empty Spaces”

  10. "There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors."
  11. a-nz:

    'Nirvana’ A poem by Charles Bukowski, read by Tom Waits

    Tom Waits: Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers & Bastards (2006) >  Bastards (disc 3)

     

    Not much chance, completely cut loose from purpose,

    he was a young man riding a bus through North Carolina on the way to somewhere.

    And it began to snow. And the bus stopped at a little cafe in the hills and the passengers entered.
    And he sat at the counter with the others, and he ordered, the food arrived.
    And the meal was particularly good.
    And the coffee. The waitress was unlike the women he had known.
    She was unaffected, and there was a natural humor which came from her.
    And the fry cook said crazy things.
    And the dishwasher in back laughed a good clean pleasant laugh. And the young man watched the snow through the window.
    And he wanted to stay in that cafe forever.
    The curious feeling swam through him that everything was beautiful there.
    And it would always stay beautiful there. And then the bus driver told the passengers that it was time to board.
    And the young man thought: “I’ll just stay here, I’ll just stay here.”
    And then he rose and he followed the others into the bus.
    He found his seat and looked at the cafe through the window.
    And then the bus moved off, down a curve, downward, out of the hills. And the young man looked straight forward.
    And he heard the other passengers speaking of other things,
    or they were reading or trying to sleep.
    And they hadn’t noticed the magic.
    And the young man put his head to one side,
    closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep. There was nothing else to do,
    just to listen to the sound of the engine,
    and the sound of the tires
    in the snow.

    (Source: tomwaits.com, via fytomwaits)

  12. eideticfields:

which eyes?

    eideticfields:

    which eyes?

  13. speciesbarocus:

Joos van Cleve (workshop of) - Saint Hieronymus.

    speciesbarocus:

    Joos van Cleve (workshop of) - Saint Hieronymus.

    (via blackpaint20)

  14. heptagram:

Nikola Samori