smakkabagms

[smakkabagms]

“April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.”

— T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

[smakkabagms]

— Apprehensions, Sylvia Plath

[text ID: Is there no way out of the mind?]

[smakkabagms]

we who hollowed out our hands to scoop spaces dark where weapons break down in rust and rot - we sang, didn’t we, as we wove little lattices with fog - when the hangman neared, our hearts sped up, we remembered we were alive

#poem #spilled ink #poetry #writeblr

[smakkabagms]

Carl Moll - The Roman ruins in Schönbrunn (1891)

[smakkabagms]

Helen of Troy (detail) Frederick Sandys 

[smakkabagms]

Sean Sexton. German designer Alfred Bollacher copying hieroglyphs on the wall of the mortuary temple of Ramesses III, Medinet Habu, Egypt, 1920.

[smakkabagms]

night after night, an empty room, and dreams shaped from the soft melancholy of wildflower fields, the silky poppies, the grazing herds of goats that people the side of the road dark’s phenomenon: my heart turns into a toad, I croak and croak, all loneliness and want, an emergence from startouched waters, a terrible beauty an embarrassment of abundance, I grow and grow

#poem #spilled ink #poetry #writeblr

[smakkabagms]

I like to think about the lives of small things names and objects that pass into obscurity, dreams never realized for they were lost upon waking Is that the cruelty of dawn? Time’s inevitable effacement - that a morning will come when I realize I forgot my mother’s laugh, a lover’s hand, the cumulative moss of my living, the tree’s underside, a place where a giant rests, a home for smaller things: creatures, invisible insect work, the memory of a lover’s hands

#poem #poetry #spilled ink #writeblr

[smakkabagms]

Alexandre Dubois-Drahonet: detail of Female nude, back view (1831)

[smakkabagms]

Solar Eclipse, Howard Russell Butler, 1925

[smakkabagms]

The market cart by Thomas Gainsborough (1727 - 1788)

[smakkabagms]

night after night, an empty room, and dreams shaped from the soft melancholy of wildflower fields, the silky poppies, the grazing herds of goats that people the side of the road dark’s phenomenon: my heart turns into a toad, I croak and croak, all loneliness and want, an emergence from startouched waters, a terrible beauty an embarrassment of abundance, I grow and grow

#poem #spilled ink #poetry #writeblr

[smakkabagms]

“Among The Foxgloves” by Jessie Wilcox Smith

[smakkabagms]

Ida Rentoul Outhwaite: The Water Fairy (1921)

[smakkabagms]

let me collect those flowers still, on those hills I’ll never return to - in that time that nearly never was - yellow, teethlike, rows and rows of graves poke out haphazardly: childhood

#poem #spilled ink #poetry #writeblr

[smakkabagms]

Katherine Mansfield, from Journal of Katherine Mansfield

[smakkabagms]

want one/want two - rufus wainwright