True Stories & Made-Up Stories (by antonio•merini)
The human heart is like a night bird. Silently waiting for something, and when the time comes, it flies straight toward it.
— Haruki Murakami, from Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (Knopf, 2014)
Turn it over and look up
into the sphere of heaven.
The tracery is lucent,
light seeping through to write,
white-ink your face, upturned.
Swing it below
and it’s a cradle of blue water,
the sea, a womb.
A mixing bowl
for Babylonian gods.
Here, they whirl up the cosmos.
Pick it up and your hands
form a pedestal,
and all who drink
contain the arcs
of body and the universe—
and between them,
no imaginable tear or distance.
Valerie Martínez, “Bowl,” from World to World (University of Arizona Press, 2004)
Stormy Day in Paris
All know that the drop merges into the ocean, but few know that the ocean merges into the drop. —
A casual flip through Nature and Its Symbols reveals the not-so-shocking history of artists finding inspiration in our natural world. We caught this book hiding in the Central Garden here.
#NowReading is a series with gettypubs that celebrates books, reading everywhere, and art.
I want to gather your darkness
in my hands, to cup it like water
I want this in the same way
as I want to touch your cheek –
it is the same –
the way a moth will come
to the bedroom window in late September,
beating and beating its wings against the cold glass,
the way a horse will lower
his long head to water, and drink,
and pause to lift his head and look,
and drink again,
taking everything in with the water,
Jane Hirshfield, To Drink
Bowl by Kan Ito, Japan
High Ground by Renee Nault
How, in the contemporary period, can we evoke the imagery that communicates the most profound and most richly developed sense of experiencing life? These images must point past themselves to that ultimate truth which must be told: that life does not have one absolutely fixed meaning. These images must point past all meanings given, beyond all definitions and relationships, to that really ineffable mystery that is just the existence, the being of ourselves and of our world. If we give that mystery an exact meaning we diminish the experience of its real depth. But when a poet carries the mind into a context of meanings and then pitches it past those, one knows that marvellous rapture that comes from going past all categories of definition. Here we sense the function of metaphor that allows us to make a journey we could not otherwise make … — Joseph Campbell, Thou Art That, p. 8-9