The Gospel According to Sky


No matter how many times I hear them
I cannot remember the names of clouds—

not the white brush strokes whipping upward
like a wishing breath, not the staccato

of cotton batting torn apart and pasted
on morning’s sculpting light, nor the low-hung

burnished steel that insulates, compresses
like mood. The encyclopaedia sings cirrus,
  
stratus, cumulus, cirrocumulus, altostratus, 
altocumulus, cumulonimbus, stratocumulus,

but all I recall is how the ceaseless, immutable
blue holds those changing shapes, like a lover

who’s finally learned how to love her right.

Cheryl Dumesnil, from Redheaded Stepchild (Spring/Summer 2014)

(via fluttering-slips:)

Wild

When they were wild
When they were not yet human
When they could have been anything,
I was on the other side ready with milk to lure them,
And their father, too, the name like a net in his hands.

Louise Erdrich

Art: Theodor Kittelsen

(via theparisreview:)

"We all arrive by different streets,
by unequal languages, at Silence."

Pablo Neruda, from “Still Another Day: XVII/Men”

(via litverve)

"kiss me a little:
the air
darkens and is alive –
o live with me in the fewness of
these colours;"

e. e. cummings, from XLVIII

(via litverve)

"what i want is to be
aware of the spaces between stars, to breathe
continuously the sources of sky,
a veined sail moving,
my love never setting
foot to the dark
anvil of earth"

Pat Lowther, from “Random Interview,” Time Capsule

(Polestar, 1996)

"The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough."

Ezra Pound, In a Station of the Metro

(via aliceinwater)

"I empty myself with light
Until I become morning."

Your scent is in the room

Swiftly, it overwhelms and conquers me!

Jasmines, night jasmines, perfect of perfumes,

Heavy with dew before the dawn of day!

Your face was in the mirror. I could see

You smile and vanish suddenly away,

leaving behind the vestige of a tear. (…)

CLAUDE McKAY, Jasmines

(via didierleclair:)

"This morning, a pause in your voice. I fill the space with rain sound."
"Gods, goddesses
wear the winged head-dress

of horns, as the butterfly
antennae,

or the erect king-cobra crest
to show how the worm turns."

H.D. The Walls Do Not Fall [7]

(via robcam-wfu)

"For there must be
kindness somewhere else in the world,
maybe even out of it, though I’m not crazy
about the emptiness of outer space. I have to live
here, with finite life and inner space and with
the horrible desire to love everything and be disappointed."

Ron Padgett’s Collected Poems

(via literarymiscellany)

There’s a soft spot in everything

Our fingers touch,
                                      the one place where everything breaks
When we press it just right.
The past is like that with its arduous edges and blind sides,
The whorls of our fingerprints
                                                              embedded along its walls
Like fossils the sea has left behind.

—Charles Wright, from “Two Stories,” The Other Side of the River (Random House, 1984)

(via memoryslandscape:)

"And when old words die out on the tongue,
new melodies break forth from the heart;
and where the old tracks are lost,
new country is revealed with its wonders."

Rabindranath Tagore

(via quietlotus)

"

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbour of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live
your life.

"

Mary Oliver, Red Bird

(via observando)