You've got to dig to dig it, you dig?
A poem a product
suitable for interior use
the purple […]
enrolled me in its misery, mysterious mist
emanating
Tenha Fé, Pois Amanhã Um Lindo Dia Vai Nascer written by Jorge Ben, perfomed by Os Originais Do Samba.
splendid in the way
it keeps its steamy blood in, no matter
how bad it blushes.
It knows it can’t exist forever, so
it’s collecting as many flavors as it can—
Whenever I feel loss or lack, I imagine
The wind roaming outside of my childhood’s lair
And in my heart, I am already on my way
To some thrilling future
… Here’s the
future:
I laugh, because the pleasure was earned
yet vouchsafed,
and I made room for what was dead past and what
yet didn’t
exist.
All Quiet on the Western Front, Edward Berger, 2022. (Based on a novel, Im Westen nichts Neues, lit.?‘Nothing New in the West’ by Erich Maria Remarque, a German veteran of World War I).
Pulp Fiction, Quentin Tarantino, 1994.
how to go on
without you, the mercy
of morning, or moving,
the light that persists
even if.
[…]
can be
learned only
by living—there—
“As its title suggests, ‘Ledge’ is from the ‘Purgatory’ section, which, in our current era of social and bodily strife—not unlike Dante’s own time—manages to offer some hard-won hope.”
—Kevin Young, via poets.org
I’m, you know, still here,
tulip, resin [fluid], temporary [always]—
“self-regenerative power lay in his joy in the ordinary, common experiences of day-to-day existence and particularly of contact with nature.” (RS)
“Who else is in the market for a pint
of papaya juice, a scruple of compassion
[…]
We want so much before it’s taken from us,
objects cry out, the things
of this world, they are magnificent,
they glow—the radiance archive,
everything that shines is in it.
Still, the lemon tree levies a tax upon my soul.
Flowers strike their tiny hammer blows.
The city makes its thousand demands,
the city is a honeycomb
of needs.
[…]
Right now, I tell you
I am listening to something that says
let it go, fear not, rise
along with me
into a sky the color of amethyst and copper dust.
It is not a voice, it is not even a bird,
but I am listening.
I believe it may be the light
itself speaking to me”
The Mercy Supermarket, Campbell McGrath; from New Yorker May 23, 2022 Issue
“… the crux of the matter is journeys, exiles, escapes, and returns. Place is the driving force of the drama” (William Marx, The Tomb of Oedipus)
… incarnation of another place.
… an idea of paradise, something that reconnects us with a landscape we have loved and which compensates us for our separation
…[scented bushes and trees] … through “innocent magic”, “perfume the adjacent places by their breaths”
The Well-Gardened Mind: The Restorative Power of Nature by Sue Stuart-Smith, via lithub.
“close attention itself can be a kind of sustenance … systems of renewal” (RS)