as long as it's still called today.
It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living. Because we are alone with the unfamiliar presence that has entered us; because everything we trust and are used to is for a moment taken away from us; because we stand in the midst of a transition where we cannot remain standing. That is why the sadness passes: the new presence inside us, the presence that has been added, has entered our heart, has gone into its innermost chamber and is no longer even there, - is already in our bloodstream. And we don’t know what it was. We could easily be made to believe that nothing happened, and yet we have changed, as a house that a guest has entered changes. We can’t say who has come, perhaps we will never know, but many signs indicate that the future enters us in this way in order to be transformed in us, long before it happens. And that is why it is so important to be solitary and attentive when one is sad: because the seemingly uneventful and motionless moment when our future steps into us is so much closer to life than that other loud and accidental point of time when it happens to us as if from outside. The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate; and later on, when it “happens” (that is, steps forth out of us to other people), we will feel related and close to it in our innermost being. And that is necessary. It is necessary - and toward this point our development will move, little by little - that nothing alien happen to us, but only what has long been our own. People have already had to rethink so many concepts of motion; and they will also gradually come to realize that what we call fate does not come into us from the outside, but emerges from us.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via liquidnight)

Every reality you know lies to me.

hyenabutter:

Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, nor Rome’s accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him, that mortal man cannot be true- not true, or undeveloped. With books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon’s, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe.
And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar. 

hyenabutter:

Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, nor Rome’s accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him, that mortal man cannot be true- not true, or undeveloped. With books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon’s, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe.

And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.
 

bicentennial eve

there is blood on my cigarette,
though i thought we were alone
in these bug bitten lawn chairs
reminiscing on what we shared.

a similar upbringing?
a fancy for patched clothes?
a charm i stole from the ancients?
or just a lust for a black lung?

you told me to stop looking for
the promised land - in a tired way,
that is always there when we’re both
derailed by the scent of mothballs.

you were serious and joking
with the rebuke of cowboy
who’s never seen a leper
in the gutter of a cathedral,

getting doused in spit by
everyone but the hooker
you slept with last night
who payed for his lotion.

i can’t let you know,
but the blood on my cigarette
is either your empty and old
sunburnt (hell-bent) bullshit,

or it’s the sweeping atonement
for every sin we’ve never seen;
finally something we both share
in a night of very real prophecy.

4,453 plays

elkaclomp:

And I was strong, strong in the sun 
I thought I’d see when day is done 
Now I’m weaker than the palest blue 
Oh, so weak in this need for you.

58 plays

Sweet Thing | Van Morrison

Astral Weeks

20 pounds of steelhead in the brine, smoking all day tomorrow.

When I was small, my father asked me before he left for work one day if I would like - as he had taught me - to dig some new potatoes out from the fall garden. I did, carefully at first, with the short shovel, making my way down to the first red skin, then up and over my wrists with both of my hands. I’ve still got this pale scar from the cut I took from the broken glass, to my finger. I stopped the bleeding. I laid them out in rows to show him when he came home.

I’ve made a spot in my back yard for tomatoes, squash, green beans, ornamental red peppers. And this year on a whim I decided to plant sweet potatoes. Frost has fallen, and I’m so brave I’ve gone this morning out to reap my rewards. I spade the ground around the roots a little, as if I were mapping some archaeological sight, but nothing shows. I take the shovel, plant my foot, and the hell with it, I push until I hear the cut of flesh, or something vegetable, and like it.

Oh, yes, I’ve found the scrawny, orange suckers tunneling for china, like the mole, or diving like a submarine under attack, and I go after them with both hands again and dig for them, like runaways, out of a rock and hard place. I swear I can feel the scar in my finger throb. OK, you don’t have to give me that, but take time for a moment, as I must do, to imagine my father standing here, in his work clothes and hat, studying my crop. He laughs, but he’s proud still as I lay them down like trout, like ears of harvest corn. I must be about as old now as he was then.

Sweet Potatoes - Michael Burns, Night Of The Grizzly

i watched a silent chunk of drift
take it’s final drowning breath
before disappearing in the
ocular treat of goodbye ripple.

sober in a sweater, standing in the water,
whispering damn and the tears more
than i could at a friends funeral.

i resuscitated a log that strange night.

months later, drunk in september,
i lost my bleed-out stringer,
screaming bitter hell and moaning
more than i could for any pleasure.

i watched a pretty seagull fly above
a large yacht and drip a perfect shit
on a woman’s tanned lower back -
she never even stopped reading.

i was resuscitated that strange night.

Feeling more awkward and odd than sad nowadays.