strangelittlepearls

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Another bejeweled spider web, shimmering in the starlight like a diamond necklace…

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#autumn #fall #autumncountryside #autumn leaves #fallfoliage #peakdistrict #countryside #britishcountryside #countryliving #countrylife #yellowleaves #October

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「　starry sky in late autumn 」　＠Nikko station

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and now it's october by Barbara Crooker

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October, crisp, misty, golden October, when the light is sweet and heavy. Angela Carter

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-Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Aurelia Plath written c. August 1951

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Anton Chekhov, After The Theatre [originally published 1892]

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Where was the slack, the loss of early fierceness? How did we come to be contained in rooms?

— Diane di Prima, from “For Cameron,” Loba

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Prague in Anthropoid (2016) dir. by Sean Ellis.

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“You have my permission not to love me; I am a cathedral of deadbolts and I’d rather burn myself down than change the locks.”

— Rachel McKibbens, “Letter from My Brain to My Heart” (via poetrist)

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Midsummer can do strange things to the body

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You don’t ever know where a sentence will take you, depending on its roll and fold. I was walking over the dunes when I saw the red fox asleep under the green branches of the pine. It flared up in the sweet order of its being, the tail that was over the muzzle lifting in airy amazement and the fire of the eyes followed and the pricked ears and the thin barrel body and the four athletic legs in their black stockings and it came to me how the polish of the world changes everything, I was hot I was cold I was almost dead of delight. Of course the mind keeps cool in its hidden palace—yes, the mind takes a long time, is otherwise occupied than by happiness, and deep breathing. Still, at last, it comes too, running like a wild thing, to be taken with its twin sister, breath. So I stood on the pale, peach-colored sand, watching the fox as it opened like a flower, and I began softly, to pick among the vast assortment of words that it should run again and again across the page that you again and again should shiver with praise.

—Mary Oliver, “Fox”, in West Wind

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Parisian Wanderings, illustration June 2020.

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I keep doing that. Bleeding

belief, spilling it onto mats and garden beds. Making love to whatever I consider holy:

the exiled light, the opening in everything, what came before, spring, poets.

— Omar Sakr, from “What It Is to Be Holy,” The Lost Arabs

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“You were last seen walking through a field of pianos. No. A museum of mouths. In the kitchen of a bustling restaurant, cracking eggs and releasing doves. No. Eating glow worms and waltzing past my bedroom. Last seen riding the subway, literally, straddling its metal back, clutching electrical cables as reins. You were wearing a dress made out of envelopes and stamps, this was how you travelled. I was the mannequin in the storefront window you could have sworn moved. The library card in the book you were reading until that dog trotted up and licked your face. The cookie with two fortunes. The one jamming herself through the paper shredder, afraid to talk to you. The beggar. Hat outstretched bumming for more minutes. The phone number on the bathroom stall with no agenda other than a good time. The good time is a picnic on water, or a movie theatre that only plays your childhood home videos and no one hushes when you talk through them. When you play my videos I throw milk duds at the screen during the scenes I watch myself letting you go — lost to the other side of an elevator — your face switching to someone else’s with the swish of a geisha’s fan. My father could have been a travelling salesman. I could have been born on any doorstep. There are 2,469,501 cities in this world, and a lot of doorsteps. Meet me on the boardwalk. I’ll be sure to wear my eyes. Do not forget your face. I could never.”

— Megan Falley (via yan-wo)

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The mouth brims with roses. How can the earth bear it?

Like love is borne; that other light that burns, and cannot be extinguished.

— Cheryl Pearson, from “Flamingo,” published in Frontier Poetry

#poetry of tumblr #Cheryl Pearson #quote #Frontier Poetry #Flamingo #poetry #out of my collection #poems of tumblr #poem #poets on tumblr #poets corner