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Kaoru Yamada

#art

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"Have you got a brook in your little heart"

by Emily Dickinson

Have you got a brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink, And shadows tremble so?

And nobody knows, so still it flows, That any brook is there; And yet your little draught of life Is daily drunken there.

Then look out for the little brook in March, When the rivers overflow, And the snows come hurrying from the hills, And the bridges often go.

And later, in August it may be, When the meadows parching lie, Beware, lest this little brook of life Some burning noon go dry!

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windy evening on the beach tonight

#beautiful

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ALT

— Rainer Maria Rilke, from “I am praying again, Awesome One.”

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Eric Ravilious (UK 1903-1942) Beachy Head Lighthouse (Belle Tout)1939 pencil and watercolour 42.9 x 57 cm

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Forugh Farrokhzad, from a letter to Ebrahim Golestan featured in “Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad,” tr. by Sholeh Wolpé.

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the terrifying angel by miklós radnóti

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“Oh, living is so uncomfortable. Everything presses in: the body demands, the spirit never ceases, living is like being weary but being unable to sleep – living is upsetting. You can’t walk around naked, either in body or in spirit.”

— Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life

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a day with m essential: he xinqi and cao ziwei for idest magazine issue 10, ph. ye fei

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ALT

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota - James Wright

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who up experiencing emotions they can talk to no one about

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Ever

by Meghan O'Rourke

Even now I can’t grasp “nothing” or “never.” They’re unholdable, unglobable, no map to nothing. Never? Never ever again to see you? An error, I aver. You’re never nothing, because nothing’s not a thing. I know death is absolute, forever, the guillotine — gutting — never to which we never say goodbye. But even as I think “forever” it goes “ever” and “ever” and “ever.” Ever after. I’m a thing that keeps on thinking. So I never see you is not a thing or think my mouth can ever. Aver: You’re not “nothing.” But neither are you something. Will I ever really get never? You’re gone. Nothing, never — ever.

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William Bronk, Selected Poems

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