#silently if out of not knowable

[soracities]

e.e. cummings, from 'silently,if out of not knowable' (Poem #38 in 73 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962

[Text ID: “yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: yours is the darkness of my soul’s return --you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars”]

#q #lit #quotes #poetry #e.e. cummings #silently if out of not knowable #the complete poems of ee cummings #the lovers #with your love as my witness #typography #forever favourite #reading #m #x

[nanamins-overtime]

Yours is the darkness of my soul’s return.

You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.

- E. E . Cummings

#e. e. cummings #poems #poetry #silently if out of not knowable #prose #writing #love #romance #literature #beauty #words #quotes #reading #books #devotion #desire #longing #yearning #for you

[jimmysea]

e.e. cummings, from ‘silently,if out of not knowable’

Bible Wichapas as VEGAS & Build Jakapan as PETE KINNPORSCHE THE SERIES (2022) dir. Khom Kongkiat Khomsiri

#kinnporsche #kinnporsche the series #vegaspete #vegas x pete #biblebuild #tosnimeat #usernuria #todramaism #samblr #userjaehwany #mostlyfate #bible wichapas #build jakapan #marigif

[ginjones]

“Your chest…” Hob whispers quietly, into the foreign space of a hotel room and feels the warmth of his breath returned to him, a lap against his skin. “It’s…softer than usual.”

A cool figure moves silently beneath him, a hand resting softly on the nape of his neck, and it pushes down gently to encourage Hob to nestle in closer. It feels wonderful. A perfect 15 degrees centigrade against his cheek. The voice, when it comes doesn’t carry like it should, given how the white walls have boxed them in and the grey carpet has muffled every would-be echo.

“The hotel pillows are insufficient.”

And Dream is right, to be fair. Hob can attest to that. He had spent three hours from midnight to 3am tossing and turning through growing increments of frustration trying to find repose on a preposterous mound of starched scratched pillows, masquerading as clouds.

That’s the first thing Hob always picks up on, he thinks. How other hotel rooms appear, even in their cheerful guise of comfort and relaxation. They are dead spaces. Unliving. Pre-packaged anew each cleaning cycle-the ghastly white sheets hardened with industrial bleaching. The bedside light spilling a facsimile of ethereal light but somehow always off. The wattage too high; the shadows it casts unknown.

This shadow however, this beautiful thing that appeared to him at 3.10am and wordlessly guided him to rest atop the comfort of a body is a facsimile too, but a knowable one. Dream moulds himself and attends to Hob and becomes, in simple moments, a conduit of pleasure.

“You’re a pillow now, are you?” Hob asks, nonchalantly because he’s too tired for the outpouring of thanks and gratitude he wants to bestow on this wonderful, considerate, frustratingly complex man-shaped entity.

“I am everything and I am nothing.” Says Dreams, true to form.

They are lying vertically across the bed. It’s an odd position but it allows Hob the opportunity to ruck the blankets over half his body, keeping it warm, while simultaneous enjoying how Dream’s chest feels like the finest eiderdown; a perfect cooling balm. And Dream must be regulating his temperature because its just the perfect combination. He sticks one loose and relaxed foot out of the covers and stretches it outwards to run over the cool metal beam of the bed. Jesus, its glorious. If he wasn’t so exhausted, that aching stretch might have spread towards his prick.

“And you’re staying here?”

“Yes.”

“With me until morning?”

“Yes”

“Well then,” Hob continues, snuggling further into the glorious, unimaginable softness of Dream’s pillowy chest. “Guess we could…” He yawns languidly, the sentence trailing off, “Get up for the continental breakfast…starts at…7. We could….if you stay…the Holdburne Museum is just around the corne…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He is carried on a gentle wave into his first sleep cycle of the night-the Dreaming welcomes him with open arms.

#dreamling fic #ficlet #baby fic #the sandman fanfic #hotel rooms suck and I hate the pillows #hob gadling #dreamling #dream of the endless #the sandman #dream x hob

[ghostofthepines]

silently if, out of not knowable night’s utmost nothing, wanders a little guess (only which is this world) more of my life does not leap than with the mystery your smile

sings or if (spiraling as luminous they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams, less into heaven certainly earth swims than each my deeper death becomes your kiss

losing through you what seemed myself;i find selves unimaginably mine;beyond sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears

yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: yours is the darkness of my soul’s return –you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars

(- e.e cummings) 

#ee cummings #e.e. cummings #poetry #poetic #poems #poem #love poem #love poetry #dark academia #literature #lit #celestial #celestialcore #stars #mooncore #quotes

[bleachbleachbleach]

We're informes that young Byakuya was an ambitious, confident and such an energetic boy. What do you think the turning point responsible for the extreme change of his personality? I mean he went through a lot like losing his parent, had to disobey the law of the clan by marrying Hisana, then in the end he had to lost her too. Also being a noble clan head was silently such a pain. But what do you think is the most prominent cause? Or is it simply 'climbing into adulthood'?

I feel like if you were to ask Byakuya, he’d give you some well-rehearsed line about comportment befitting the 28th Head of the Kuchiki Clan and Captain of the 6th Division.

If you were Rukia and he caught you whispering something with Ukitake about Hisana, he probably wouldn’t disabuse you of whatever notion you and your captain had concocted.

if you were Byakuya, you probably wouldn’t hesitate to name some specific, discrete reason or set of reasons you are the way that you are.

But I’d resist naming a specific, discrete turning point—primarily to resist Byakuya’s inclinations, because what has he done to deserve those, but also because if Byakuya genuinely had his way then refusing gray areas and being hardline about how your life is going to go and what you should do to atone for your more whimsical decisions and what rules you must promise to uphold—that all would have worked out for him, in ways that it clearly didn’t. Because that’s not how life works.

Which isn’t to say that flashpoint moments don’t exist, or that there aren’t life occurrences that can have massive, traceable effects on the person you are, or become. Of course they can. But I don’t think Byakuya is the way that he is because of X, specifically, or even Y.

No matter what he says, or even personally believes.

I do think part of it is simply being older than we saw him in TBTP; but I’d hesitate to draw a complete picture of what Byakuya was like as a teenager from the one instance that we saw. He was in the yard, in the middle of a training session, and he was being terrorized by Yoruichi. He’s hyped up on endorphins and acting like a brat because he’s being treated like a brat by another adult brat. At that age, Byakuya was probably still spending a bunch of time shadowing clan meetings and doing calligraphy and writing dense, pedantic poetry about raccoons or shikai or whatever. He was probably also doing a lot of "traditionally Byakuya, as we know him" things, in the same way that Byauya, as we know him, still takes time out of his day to do completely insane things (more on that later. a numbered list, in fact).

How much of this is publicly available (or isn’t) does probably have a lot to do with being Clan Head. And sure, Clan Head is a role that he performs, but I think he believes in this whole clan head thing with every fiber of his being; like, he’s method. He’s the gonzo journalist of being clan head. he *is* this thing. And if there are parts of that role that are not desirable to him (I’m sure that there are) I don’t think he thinks about them as being a pain. They simply are. They are, and they are his, and he has never imagined a reality where they are not. We talk about shinigami being defined by their job but the man is the clan head, irreducibly and inextricably. 

I think he’s discovered, between TBTP and now, that to be less knowable is to be powerful, in almost any situation he can imagine. Not that he doesn’t love a good opportunity to pontificate, but that’s like the reward at the end of a successful round of impassivity. Plus his pontifications are more allusive than genuinely educational, so it’s really just more of the same, in a different key. (When Urahara infodumps, he likes seeing the shape of your eyes change, and all the little microexpressions that are tied like puppet-strings to all the small epiphanies happening in your brain. When Hitsugaya infodumps, he wants you do have information and, ideally, have it correctly. But when Byakuya infodumps, he’s performing a philosophical treatise and it doesn’t really matter whether it’s parsable by you, the audience, or not.)

And of course I think he’s also been shaped by his time with Hisana and his time without her; with and without his father (and one assumes, his mother; with and without Rukia. But there’s no way to measure or organize these different influences and isolate the variables and during his designated moments allotted to introspection he’s probably not completely thrilled by that. So he suffers, as do we all. XD

I also think part of him is just naturally That Way; he’s a born, organic weirdo; a standoffish strangeman. That’s in addition to havng grown up and found out that it’s smarter, more strategic, and more effective in terms of getting what he wants to be a little more Enigma and a little less Boy Shouts at Cat. 

On the other hand, we’ve definitely seen him be about 10000000000000000x more bananas in the current canon timeline than he ever could have dreamed in that one TBTP flashback:

1) He tried to imprison his own VC for losing to Ichigo, a proposal so insane every single other person was like, "well, that’s fucking stupid, so we’ll be ignoring that" even though technically he probably does have that power, since Captains can run their division however they want.

2) He almost killed his own VC in the middle of an active invasion, for reasons that only vaguely had anything to do with actually responding to said invasion.

I’ll give him a pass on fighting Ichigo, because technically that was his job? maybe? and sure, he did it in an ineffective way but that tracks with the overall Gotei strategic plan, so.

4) Immediately leapt to slashing his own tendons, deep in enemy territory, his only fallback plan being Hanatarou’s ability to survive and do anything about those tendons afterward.

5) Fought Zaraki deep in the middle of enemy territory, with Yammy still in play, in the middle of a war that YOU KNOW WHAT, THEY PROBABLY COULD’VE BEEN BACK FOR (not that it would’ve mattered, but) if they weren’t fucking around in the desert together

And that all happened in the same like, four months!

One of the scenes that I absolutely love from the Beast Swords Arc is someone commenting on how surprisingly baffling Senbonzakura’s personality was, in contrast to Byakuya’s. And Kyouraku and Ukitake don’t belabor the point, but they’re kinda like "weeee~ll hahaha" and I think that’s an incredibly accurate non-assessment of who Byauya both was and is.

I don’t think he secretly wants to be a drunk buffoon and his being Clan Head is the only thing holding him back from living his frat boy truth. I think he’s already living his truth because, from his POV, what else would he be doing? He’s Kuchiki Byakuya. Whatever he’s doing is whatever he intends to be doing.

However, I also believe that many people around him don’t actually see (have been trained not to? don’t know him well enough to? are politely pretending not to have seen?) part of the truth he’s living—the part that is that bananas streak in him, very much alive and well.

#i thought about adding pictures because tumblr likes pictures but then i thought 'what images would actually add value here?' #and then i thought about adding sub-headings for navigation and legibility but i thought 'well byakuya wouldn't' #so here is my love letter to byakuya with the biggest possible byakuya energy #21 completely uncut unbroken paragraphs of just byakuya #thank you for this ask you sent.... two months ago! SORRY IT IS SO LATE #rest assured i loved talking about byakuya and our lateness is not for lack of interest #asks #kuchiki byakuya #bleach headcanons #no brain just bleach

[guerins]

Silently if, out of not knowable by E.E. Cummings

#roswell #roswelledit #michael guerin #michaelguerinedit #mariadelucaedit #maria deluca #michael x maria #mmqg #michaelxmaria #* #*22

[xenosagaepisodeone]

It's redundant to talk about what Angela means to me as a character, but what cannot be stated enough is that Angela is also the emotional core of Silent Hill 2. She embodies both the unreality of the game and it's grounded themes in how her behavior is a product of a very disturbing but very knowable form of trauma. The game is built sympathetically around her in spite of what she chooses to do in the end. Even if they say that Konami has Bloober Team "on a leash" (I'm still very skeptical about this lol I feel insane that people are just taking Konami at their word now), I don't trust a studio that put out a game where the text is literally "if you were abused as a child, you are better off dead; but if you abused a child, you probably had a very sad and tragic reason to" to handle her story or characterization properly- unless they literally copy and pasted it. It's still so jarring to me that a studio whose repertoire can only be described as "sometimes nice to look at" is handling a game that's so much more than what it conveys on the surface.

#silent hill

[herald-divine-hell]

The Murmur of Stories

Leliana found him sitting alone in the garden, veiled in moonlight and cloaked in darkness. A misty shroud of silver trickled along his thick wavy curls, brushed until the strands gleamed like shining obsidian, silky and soft; and the pale full moon poured watery moonlight upon his face, and all scars of worries and torment upon his dark amber-brown face was painted away, A painted mantle of soft silvery-blue wrapped about his head like a timeless crown, and the shadows and moonlight bent and twisted about him until it appeared as if he was embraced by the night. 

In the threshold of the doorway Leliana stood there, feeling the cold night winds thread through the slender branches of the trees, catching handfuls of leaves and casting them billowing into the air. The grass rustled and the trees sighed, and the moonlight held Amayian in its embrace, and all Leliana could do was watch—watch as this silent specter stepped out from the darkness, unknowable and knowable. Gray, fogged memories shivered about him, stirring like the snows of a winter storm, leaving him a murky white blur in the dark. But two glints shone bright through the frosty walls, those eyes of icy silvery-blue. Eyes that spoke of times his face did not show, of stories sealed behind thick ice, nearly lost in the frost. The eyes of the ageless, the eyes of ages. Gleaming out from the darkness, his eyes were the frozen moon, glinting with all the gathered stars, seen and unseen, that passed marching through the dark skies. A pale, ghostly gaze as frigid as winter and sealing as death. 

And yet, Leliana always thought them beautiful. Untold stories flitted and traveled with the pale blue of the stars, drifting across the silver like the breath of winter. Watchful eyes, indeed, but they did not judge, not even her. When Amayian gazed upon her, Leliana felt as if her soul was laid bare, resting upon a mound of snow beneath the night. But it did not struggle and tear, did not slice or cut. It unbinded the straps of her armor, unlaced the clothes beneath, and with every sight of flesh, of herself, its ghostly fingers traced with all the measured adoration of a lover, laying kisses upon bruised scars that even she had forgotten. And it recounted her stories, so she did not have to, and it bore her burdens when she could not.

“Come, sit down, Leliana.”

Those eyes were peering at her now, ethereal and icy and eerie. But the ice was smoothed, not fogged, the tendrilled cracks not lost at a growing white center. Entirely Amayian—the Amayian she knew—so blunt and open that it made her smile and want to shy away. Shy away because what if he saw something that was unworthy of him, saw the ugliness of her soul? Yet, he stared at her as if she was the only thing in existence, the only thing that mattered—all of it. Not just her famed beauty, or her rich mind, but the crimes she had committed, the sins she had engraved upon her skin like etched scars. They made up who she was, and Amayian…no, she cannot say love. She did not even know if he still bore affection toward her, even though they grappled through the Blight together, sung songs only the night had ever heard. But his eyes spoke of the care and measure that he held in all things he does, striving for delicacy with hands hardened with ruthless callous. 

Silently, she stepped forward, passing beneath the darkness of the stone ceiling to the darkness of a ceiling older than the world. The stars were out, the skies cloudless, a smoothed sea of dark blue, speckled with white. He sat on one of the stone benches of the garden, and there is where she took her place. 

For a while, no words passed, only the sighs of the winds singing in their ears. Amayian was staring up at the two moons, with the longing she often saw in his eyes at such times. That longing he never learned to hide, not from her at least. What are you recalling? thought Leliana, to this shade of a man whom she knew from a broken shard of another life. Or is it, who?

But she did not ask, for such answers were not hers to have. Not all secrets were, though the truth was bitter to swallow. Amayian had his secrets, and she had her. But they had their stories, and the stories held scraps of secrets Leliana gathered in her arms just as eagerly. And yet, she never sought to piece them all together. She always did to others, learned things that they did not mean to whisper out, but with Amayian…it felt wrong. He did not judge her, so how can she do the same. No. The least I can do is let him keep his secrets. Even if the curious yearning bit and nipped at her so. 

But such things faded away as she studied him. Beneath her leather gloves, her palms twitched and her fingers itched, to trace one of the many scars latticing across his broad, strong face. They longed to slide so easily through the curly waves of black with their threads of silver, just as they did in ancient, scarred Ferelden, when he would let her braid his hair to pass time. 

And most importantly, she wanted his eyes, his gaze. She wanted to be frozen in time once more, to lay upon that hill of snow, kissed by falling snowflakes and streaming moonlight, and undress by the glow of the starlight, where very pain and ache was eased away by firm, kind, unseen hands. 

She wanted, but wants were a tricky, fleeing thing, always fleeing from Leliana. So she kept that desire within herself, slipped it inside the chest with all her secrets, and locked away once more. That chest of the Nightingale could carry one more secret. It was the least it could do. 

“It is late.” Amayian’s deep, smooth voice rolled about her like a beat of thunder, drawing her into a blanket of warmth despite the frozen steel that characterized his tone. “You should be sleeping.”

She smiled. Always concerned for others before himself. At least that had not changed in time. “So should you.” Shrugging, Leliana kicked out her feet, stretched her legs, fighting the giddiness that threatened to engulf her after seeing just a trickle of the old boy she knew. The amusement must have been in her voice, since Amayian glanced at her, confusion clear in his eyes. Strangely, it was oddly endearing to her. Ages passed in his eyes, but such things oft seemed to confuse him. It made teasing so terribly delicious. “In any case, I cannot sleep.” She rarely did these days. Amayian did not need to know that. Or he’ll be insistent day and night for me to find rest, likely by stealing away some of my work. He had already done so with Josephine, and Leliana did not think she could win that battle either. 

She saw him nod before glancing back up at the heavens. Again, silence came, but it was an old friend, patting her upon the shoulder, loosening the tension bundling in her. Her eyes turned toward the sky, watched as countless stars gleamed and glittered faintly, thrown in such disarray. Yet done so that the eye could catch glimpses of shapes and images within, light of the souls of the ancient past. She counted each constellation in her head, and the stories that bound them into the heart of the people. 

How long they sat there, Leliana did not know. But then, Amayian spoke. “Have I ever told you the story of the Sea who loved the Night?”

Leliana raised her head, scurried through the memories with since glances so she could not be thrown and trapped within their confines. It was a threat that she constantly had to carefully dangle herself so she did not trip. “No, I do not recall.” Without thinking, she shifted closer, until their thighs were touching. Amayian glanced down, and with warm pleasure she watched as a fine dusting of red touched his cheeks. Like all the others, she kept it hidden within herself. Such things were delights, after all. She lifted her hand, halted when his eyes flickered speedily to it, and slowly placed it over his. She felt his bone stiffen for just a moment from panic to slivering inside her. But then they loosened, and he fingers wrapped around his palm, squeezing gently. “I would like to hear it.”

“Do you recall our agreement?”

The laughter bubbled out of her without her knowing. “Yes, yes I do. A story for a story.” She halted…afraid. But then he stared at her once more, and the fear fled like a coward into the dirt. “A story for a story…”

Amayian nodded. And then, he began.

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age Inquisition #DA #DAI #Inquisitor #Dragon Age Inquisitor #Dragon Age Trevelyan #Inquisitor Trevelyan #Amayian Trevelyan #Dragon Age Leliana #Leliana #Leliana x Inquisitor #Inquisitor x Leliana #Leliana/Inquisitor #Inquisitor/Leliana #Dragon Age Fanfiction #Fanfiction #my writing

[mysyerious]

MY MOON

“yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: yours is the darkness of my soul’s return—you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars”

e.e. cummings, from 'silently, if out of not knowable' (Poem #38 in 73 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962

dedicated to the beloved @raelwrites congrats on 1500 followers!!

it is not the birds nesting outside on his windowsill that rouse him, nor is it the bustle of the neighbourhood waking up in tandem.

frank cracks his eyes open for the first time that day at the feeling of a light caress against his cheekbone.

waking like this was unusual for only a handful of reasons. for one, the man lived alone and frank was certain his 4-legged companion had not grown hands overnight; for another, he had not anticipated khonshu to be back so soon—because it had taken a slow and painstaking amount of time, but the pair eventually confronted both themselves and each other about their feelings, and since then frank kept a track of how long khonshu was away from him.

so yes, he starts to wake when he feels a touch on his cheek and yes, he slowly reaches under his pillow to grab the kimber warrior kept there—because he might be an avatar, but he would never ignore instincts.

but it is at the sound of the god's rumbling voice that frank starts to smile, because his god is home. and it is as that rough timbre washes over him that frank rolls over with a shiver, patting the warmth he left behind for khonshu to sit on.

khonshu lays down in the space created. he knows, despite how much frank denies it again and again, that his mortal likes when he can cuddle up against his emaciated frame—he might not give off warmth like a sun god might but he is cool and gentle, and frank seems to prefer that ever-present misty coldness anyway.

a soft "wasn't expecting you home so soon" is mumbled into the god's robes, only just audible over the shuffling of blankets.

the god moves his arm to curl over frank, pulling him in closer to his body, "wanted to surprise you, little one." which might not be the only reason, but it is the reason he's willing to disclose while frank drifts in and out of sleep next to him.

and khonshu can feel how his avatar melts against him as he moves his hand to ruffle through frank's bedhead, listening as his breathing evens out when he succumbs to sleep.

"I missed you, my little bird."

#avatar frank #frank x khonshu #frank castle x khonshu

[anniekoh]

Girlhood 

by Melissa Febos (2021)

When her body began to change at eleven years old, Febos understood immediately that her meaning to other people had changed with it. By her teens, she defined herself based on these perceptions and by the romantic relationships she threw herself into headlong. Over time, Febos increasingly questioned the stories she’d been told about herself and the habits and defenses she’d developed over years of trying to meet others’ expectations. The values she and so many other women had learned in girlhood did not prioritize their personal safety, happiness, or freedom, and she set out to reframe those values and beliefs.

Blending investigative reporting, memoir, and scholarship, Febos charts how she and others like her have reimagined relationships and made room for the anger, grief, power, and pleasure women have long been taught to deny.

As a note, I couldn’t commit as a reader to Febos’ essay on the peeping tom. Policing and our larger societal expectations around how best to address gendered violence against women has produced a lot of carceral measures, see the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) but little in the way of protection against such violence. 

Women in the Picture: What Culture Does with Female Bodies

by Catherine McCormack (2021)

Venus, maiden, wife, mother, monster—women have been bound so long by these restrictive roles, codified by patriarchal culture, that we scarcely see them. Catherine McCormack illuminates the assumptions behind these stereotypes whether writ large or subtly hidden. She ranges through Western art—think Titian, Botticelli, and Millais—and the image-saturated world of fashion photographs, advertisements, and social media, and boldly counters these depictions by turning to the work of women artists like Morisot, Ringgold, Lacy, and Walker, who offer alternative images for exploring women's identity, sexuality, race, and power in more complex ways.

I read these two books one after the other and they had a lot of common themes. Both are well worth reading! McCormack examines Kara Walker’s massive sculptural installation -- “sugar-coated sphinx-like woman” subtitled “Marvelous Sugar Baby” -- at the Domino Sugar factory 

the riddle of how black experience gets shaped into a narrative that reflects whiteness. And this process itself echoes the grand sugar enterprise of refining dark substance to white matter, as well as classical history’s suppression and erausre of its African origins.

Monsters -- like the black mammy sphinx, but also Lilith and Medusa -- unsettle and agitate and destabilise and resist reduction into perfect takeaway meanings by bringing what is repressed up to the surface... searching for the perfect meaning is in fact a form of violence -- it reduces and contains things by purporting to make them fully knowable, and becomes a way of owning them.

McCormack also re-examines “classics” such as Titian’s Europa - for which the “standard reading that the painting’s tension lies in the ambiguity over whether to maiden writhes in terror or in ecstasy.” She cites critic Barbara Johnson’s essay “Muteness Envy”: “two things women are silent about: their pleasure and their violation [and] the work performed by the idealisation of this silence is that it helps culture not to be able to tell the difference between the two.”

#to read #feminism #art

[soracities]

e.e. cummings, from 'silently,if out of not knowable' (Poem #38 in 73 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962

[Text ID: “losing through you what seemed myself,i find selves unimaginably mine;”]

#never not thinking of this line #q #lit #quotes #poetry #e.e. cummings #silently if out of not knowable #the complete poems of ee cummings #with your love as my witness #archive #forever favourite #reading #typography #m #x

[libidomechanica]

Listening whispers, “Tis”

Of a great seruices may     scornefully looked down in perfect shade through the forehead, and     swift motion, they are swept

by balms of spring. Since thou this—     to tell you that place me zones and an imagining a     voice replies, very clever,

young Favonious. Quite clear stream     that best I wish in the mind, since the Hour of Harvest of     the lonely moated grange.

Comforts be, as, constellations,     lations, and complete, however she will say, Fair once it     was as if magnets cleared

them—whose Helmsman on an oceans     miles below, then. Expect change. That hangs a mirror bade     he brine; where the familiar

grace of a former days to     subjects worst to steal thyself than she is not: you are, will     stay, for term of life

enisle ourselves do crowned her trunk.     That flows but never fell his own he lifted; but I want     to salute the fair; the

ornament of curious lip,     gorgonised me from Generation, is loath the     Nightingale. And mock you a

wreaths against my fears no blot? There     came there; so, not the torch out, while I slept. They live twice; in     it and injury of

age, nor gives us ourselves, in     the fierce, showing the loom she said; she saw the Isle, beyond     the red cheeks, which I tooke

as of a little day, your little     half so ill, that blinds you to recite what nowe sleepless     ocean, and wash my earth,

in health the wound and ransom all     day; come! My life and sick of an old passions of sweet     beloved one, but on her

brow sae white curtain, to anticipate     the morning dews impearled. Quite clear falls to grace     me zones and floated wide;

the silent though you disgusts me;     here you can do. A deep vault. But do thy walks, and her smooth     and his hand in the world,

that in no knowable envelope,     with no runway lights to weave thee, and nights be term’d a     poet’s, too, than ever

wash away, away complete, you     are there is the longer can I forget you, already     … I’m beginnes to be

my wife is dreary, he will of     God be done! For love’s language start of a peace between the     harder heart do cover.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #163 texts #ballad

[vyragosa]

"silently if, out of not knowable, with your love as witness."

(　´_ゝ｀).......

[webweaveds]

The Child Formerly Known As , Cameron Awkward-Rich / Lacrimosa (2020) - Nicola Samori / e.e. cummings, from 'silently,if out of not knowable' (Poem #38 in 73 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962 / Open Fields by Guillaume Amat / Matilda, Harry Styles

#web weaving #identity

[infinitesofnought]

silently if,out of not knowable night’s utmost nothing,wanders a little guess (only which is this world)more of my life does not leap than with the mystery your smile

sings or if(spiraling as luminous they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams, less into heaven certainly earth swims than each my deeper death becomes your kiss

losing through you what seemed myself,i find selves unimaginably mine;beyond sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears

yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: yours is the darkness of my soul’s return –you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars

– e. e. cummings, Poem #38: “silently if,out of not knowable”

#silently if out of not knowable #poetry #love #e. e. cummings