Tumgir
feral-ballad · 20 hours ago
Photo
Tumblr media
The Little Foot-Page by Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale, 1905
11K notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 3 days ago
Note
hi! i was the anon who asked about yves olade's beloved. thank you for the link! i was wondering if they have a book or collection out that i can buy?
yes, you can get his collection “dark when it gets dark” here on amazon! 🤎
12 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 4 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from Extracting The Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972; “Written in Anahuac (Talitha)”
271 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 4 days ago
Text
I don’t know how to speak anymore. I can’t speak anymore. I have taken apart what they never gave me, which was all I had. And it is death again. It closes in on me, it is my only horizon. No one resembles my dream. I have felt love and they mistreated it, yes, me, I who had never loved. The deepest love will disappear forever. What can we love that isn’t a shadow? The sacred dreams of childhood have already died, and with them those of nature, which loved me.
Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from Extracting The Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972; “Memories of the little house of song”
111 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 4 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from Extracting The Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972; “Written in the twilight”
254 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 4 days ago
Text
They left me with open dreams, with my central wound wide open, with my heart torn. I mourn myself; this is my right.
Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from Extracting The Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972; “Memories of the little house of song”
190 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 4 days ago
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Jan van der Kooi (1957, The Netherlands)
Interior scenes
Jan van der Kooi is a Dutch contemporary figurative painter. His work has two main focuses: painting light, often in the same location during different light and seasons (in the manner of Monet or Hammershøi); and traditional drawing in a manner influenced by Michelangelo and other old masters.
31K notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 5 days ago
Text
I keep my own personal terrible holy spirit. / It lives in my faint blood / and my whole animal heart. / We beat together. He is so cold. / Real gods knife you up.
Talin Tahajian, “I keep a strange list”
150 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 5 days ago
Text
I turn to myself and say Help I think I am killing myself—
Talin Tahajian, “I keep a strange list”
198 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 5 days ago
Text
If anyone ever listened to me, they would know (…) but they don’t listen—they never—
Talin Tahajian, “I keep a strange list”
148 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 5 days ago
Note
i cant begin to explain how much your blog inspires me. its been a couple of rough years and i lost my creativity along the way, but here i found it again. very slowly i can do art as i used to, and im so thankful you made such an amazing place <3
…oh my god dear anon!!! my heart is just!!! so full right now!!! i genuinely have no words. my darling, i’m thankful that you’re here. and i’m so so glad that you’re doing art again, that’s all that matters & you should be so proud of yourself !! because i am. may you always find it no matter how lost you might get. thank you endlessly for this ♡
19 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 5 days ago
Note
Where is your title quote from? “My heart, a feverish pomegranate”
it’s a miguel hernández poem titled “your heart is a frozen orange.” i have a very deep emotional connection to it ♡ here, it goes like this:
Your heart, a frozen orange, a centre,
within, without light, of sweet juniper oil
and a porous appearance of gold: a surface
that promises danger to those who look.
My heart, a feverish pomegranate
of clustered blushes, and opened wax,
which might offer you its tender seeds
with an enamoured obstinacy.
Ay! What an experience of loss
to go to your heart and find a coldness
of irreducible and fearful snow!
Through the outskirts of my weeping
a thirsty handkerchief goes flying,
with the hope of one who might drink there.
110 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 7 days ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Mary Oliver, from Devotions; “From the book of time”
500 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 7 days ago
Note
where do you find all of your quotes and things? I love your posts a lot :)
this means a lot to me, thank you so much lovely!!🕊 my quotes are all from books i’m currently reading or have already read. i also use this website to find other similar writers to the ones i already like & do my research on each one, along with recommendations from other lit blogs. sometimes i even download books just for the title & see where it takes me! i hope this helped ♡
52 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 7 days ago
Text
I am jealous of everything around you. I am jealous of my senses. The air is the colour of gardenias, your smell on my shoulders like laughter and triumphal arches. I am jealous of the peaceful daggers lying sheathed before you on the table, waiting for a sign from you to kill me. I am jealous of the vase, which has no need of its yellow roses because you give it the full benefit of your deep red lips, hungry for my hunger. I am jealous of the painting staring greedily at you: look longer at me, so I too can have my fill of lakes and cherry orchards. I am envious of the foliage on the rug, straining upwards to see an anklet descending on it from above, and of the anklet when it rests on your knee, making the marble in the room as hot as my fantasies. I am envious of the bookshop that is out of sorts because it doesn't carry an erotic book in praise of two small ivory hills, bared before it to a frenzy of guitars, then hidden by a wave of sighing silk. I am envious of my fingers catching the dialogue of darkness and light as it overflows from your hands, the movement of a spoon in your teacup, the salts stirred up in a body that yearns for a storm to spark the fire of song: gather me up, all of you, and hold me close so I can envy my memories of you in the future.
I envy my tongue, which calls your name with as much care as someone carrying four crystal glasses in one hand. I taste the letters of your name one by one, like lyrical fruits. I do not add water to them, so as to preserve the taste of peaches and the thirst of my senses. I envy my imagination embracing you, silencing you, kissing you, caressing you, holding you tight and letting you go, bringing you near and pushing you away, lifting you up and putting you down, making you submit and submitting to you, and doing all the things I never do.
Mahmoud Darwish, tr. by Catherine Cobham, from A river dies of thirst: journals: “I am jealous of everything around you”
303 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 7 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
Sujata Bhatt, from Poppies in translation; “Where a scorpion sleeps”
298 notes · View notes
feral-ballad · 7 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
Sujata Bhatt, from Poppies in translation; “Between hearts”
183 notes · View notes