volume
the noise gets stuck
like the chirp of the
birds outside. a day
happens, then an-
other country closes
shop. the ladies
on the metro safe
now, the stars all
askew, but no good
looking at the
sky now. inter-
national suits crimson
ties. your tailored smile
wrinkled, frayed
online. so many
want to live. so many
deserve to breathe.
i no longer can follow
comfortable
metricality.
alone, i sing all alone.
i sing alone
i sing alone
and wide like a drunkard
opens arms
i sing alone
and deep like a little
girl loves
i sing alone
and loud like the thunder
of your silence
speaks for your
lightning solidarity.
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suspension
It will come like
the changing of seasons,
It is close like
few weeks, few events are.
All of us rationing. The long sleep
Under the curve. It will not flatten
if you do not breathe. So,
close doors with ease.
When it comes, the sunlight
on our faces. The skies longer,
unfazed by the loneliness
we forgot would break us.
The world will be lighter. Burying
to do. Even my mouth, always worried
of saying the wrong things
feels lighter at the thought of your smiles.
We will take a minute,
when nothing blows over us,
remember: the rent is due
soon, the harshness of us
unmelting, melting.
We will walk out like naked things:
maskless. Children-like
at our ease reborn.
The day you step havoc
to business again, your face
will be pink. You will think
on your slow walk home
It’s like this world never
needed us.
It will be business as usual.
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unearthing
Since we had not woken up
when we had expected, since
the days of trembling
with joy that did not have
to be taken nor earned, we sang
like our voices came from
elsewhere than our plexus
and adamant, we wanted
limbs like ours — to rest
on, some solace in the end-
less days, to kiss like
our first loves had changed
their mind for the better
like our parents’ ashes were
a fistful of pollen, and nothing
more insidious than a rose
grew inside your ribs, and
they were leaving their rest
places for us while inside
we went, because our work
was only the loving to do
to see barren earth and to
turn the roots up, like a sigh
of tangled hair bunches
eager to be held by some-
thing bigger than itself.
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“But find me manic & you can’t find me. I’m a knobless door. I cook meals for the dead & they eat. I ride the casket like a car, step into traffic like a car but I’m a body. No body can look both ways simultaneously. Except me. I’m an eighteen-layer lust-cake.”
— Shira Erlichman, from “Perfect,” Odes to Lithium
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Please write more often. You have readers :) xoxo, bless you!
I can’t tell how old this is, but I’ve been reading. Should I start posting again if anyone reads this blog?
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The earliest light we know
is out there on the hill this evening, calling to us. Starlight
is an ancient lilac, a talent for the fragile certainty:
there is a speck
of memory. Then it is quiet.
It’s sacrilege to imagine
how someone should or should not
have loved you, umpteenth time.
—Sarah Vap, “Reconcile,” from Faulkner’s Rosary (Saturnalia Books, 2010)
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Hold him. An infant can’t love himself, I think. Plum, magenta
reversals of light—a cloth ball to roll to the infant. His is the
more decent dark radiance—he is still an infant picking
through a pile of yarn. He might watch the beautiful things of
this world disappear. Yet where my remembrance joins his
reminiscence—as scraps of paper on the floor, or a few purple
tiles. Who, on the advice of her soul alone, could be the
counterweight of his plain light. But the final color is different
as something permanent is. As an heir to memory is, or as a
love that will hurt us.
Sarah Vap, from “Hold him, An infant can’t love himself, I think … ,” Viability (Penguin, 2016)
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The place I come from is beautiful.
Sheesh Mahal, Pakistan.
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Lotus Temple - Delhi, India
A holy place of worship for followers of the Bahá'í Faith, the Lotus Temple has won numerous architectural awards, making it one of the most recognisable buildings in India. Like all other Bahá'í places of worship, the temple is open to anyone of any religion. The “petals” of the lotus flower are made of pure marble imported from Greece.
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The Jain Dilwara temple, Mount Abu, Rajasthan
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Narain Niwas Palace - Jaipur, India
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Jahangiri Mahal, Red Fort, Agra, 16th Century. Photo by Amit Pasricha
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Waiting salon of the emperor in the Viennese rail station by Otto Wagner. Vienna 1901.
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carlo scarpa - museo di castelvecchio, verona, italia, 1957-1975 foto - peter guthrie from ‘carlo scarpa and castelvecchio revisted’ 2017
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Matthieu Venot l 2019 l PSTL HVN II
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i absolutely love when brutalist buildings are surrounded by and covered in a bunch of greenery. the juxtaposition……
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i won the highest valued creative writing prize by mcgill and i should feel proud of that
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