Latest Posts by lacexleaves - Page 4

October is my empire. Terror is part of me. 一 Tamura Ryūichi

1. Alfonsina Storni, 2. Cy Twombly, 3. William Stanley Merwin, 4. Cy Twombly, 5. Virginia Woolf, 6. Jorge Albericio, 7. Gala Mukomolova, 8. Andrei Tarkovsky, 9. Czesław Miłosz, 10. Andrei Tarkovsky, 11. Thomas Wolfe, 12. Andrei Tarkovsky, 13. Louise Glück

Coherence as a virtue is praised too much

Untitled

White, as if a shroud for one's dead,

Came the rain to cover the twisted

Smile with which the city laid.

The salt-wet cloud pressed down

Apologetically down on the wails

To muffle down the alleys where

Fear smelt sharper than the guilty

Lust for life.

The smoke rose up and died

In the arms of the rain

And the bruised earth cooled itself

Down to sleep on the sidewalk

Tattered from toes to head

And a loaf of wet, burned bread

Fed the hunger in their

Grim, kerosene-masked eyes.

There was a road from living,

So they said, and it was hope

That shone on the edge of

The blade. Prayers curled up

In its handle like a dirty scroll

Pushed up in a crypt, to hold onto

And to give up to the fire when

Rain shattered all.

- pollosky-in-blue

Music asks 6, 22 and 39.

Hello! :)

6. a song whose bridge takes you out

I couldn't find the song in Spotify, so I had to give this one. The atmosphere and the bridge gives the song a different life I think

22. a song that tells a story

Ooo so I think all songs tell their own stories, and each one can be interpreted in hundreds of ways. Since it asks for one song lol I had to choose this one, it tells a tale like one of those Inkheart Trilogies.

39. a song you recommend to the person asking this

I wasn't sure what songs you liked, so I thought I'd choose a poem! But it has been sung beautifully

It’s odd how the only time you are hit with a profound feeling of despair or any kind of hopelessness is when you either have nothing to do or when you are at least not actively engaged in something, I’ve had people tell me that that is why they keep themselves busy all the time, boredom breeds nihilism, etc. But isn’t that also implying - basically acknowledging, however unconscious that might be - that without the presence of an ever hovering distraction, everything is essentially arbitrary ? ( i.e the current state of matters is so terrible that you need a constant diversion to keep from falling into depression) How inattentive do you need to be to not notice that ? Maybe, just maybe, everyone is always in a hurry because of this need for their thoughts to revolve around some external thing ? Societal Indoctrination of behaviour ? Inadvertent familial conditioning ? What is it ?

Frosted glass between rain and life

I run my hand through the same old withered branches,

Drenched in the same old tired rain,

Far away the sunset harbours the lost gold of

Odysseys gone by, and if the wind were to hide

Within it some unremembered glow from the land

Of unknown secrets, the evening will gently

Whisk away the covers of the coquette,

And reveal to us a maiden under the bent willow,

Sweet as the apples from the orchards where our dreams

Were buried. She will beckon for the children

To gather around the fire and tell them the story

Of Zerah and Zulamith, whilst we twist the

Slender branches of the cherry tree into a throne

Fit for the brides of heaven to recline on,

Place at the altar a wreath of dead roses,

And hope that the silent fragrance borne to the shore

Is enough for the sea to give up the child

She drew to her heart in death’s storm.

…

And dare I tag anyone? @pollosky-in-blue perhaps you’ll like the story?

Frosted glass between rain and life

I run my hand through the same old withered branches,

Drenched in the same old tired rain,

Far away the sunset harbours the lost gold of

Odysseys gone by, and if the wind were to hide

Within it some unremembered glow from the land

Of unknown secrets, the evening will gently

Whisk away the covers of the coquette,

And reveal to us a maiden under the bent willow,

Sweet as the apples from the orchards where our dreams

Were buried. She will beckon for the children

To gather around the fire and tell them the story

Of Zerah and Zulamith, whilst we twist the

Slender branches of the cherry tree into a throne

Fit for the brides of heaven to recline on,

Place at the altar a wreath of dead roses,

And hope that the silent fragrance borne to the shore

Is enough for the sea to give up the child

She drew to her heart in death’s storm.

…

And dare I tag anyone? @pollosky-in-blue perhaps you’ll like the story?

September is a pretty month, with its pale blue skies overlaid with gold and rose, while hazy clouds of a darker grey float dreamily about the edges.

The mild breeze twisted over the cloud of sunset,

Poised as though the sea had taken up

the form of her capricious admirer,

To stretch out her arms and reach for her

untouchable muse.

The pearly light of the moon twinkles

with the light of heavenly solace

Upon the ceaseless wave wandering in confounding

aimlessness,

All while the depths of the untouched ocean

rumble with the disturbed murmurs whispered to an

empty heart, wherein the first star at twilight

and the final star at dawn, will be united in a

yearning embrace, someday.

there is something so beautiful about hearing people speak in their first language, their mother tongue. it’s as if you’re hearing them truly speak for the first time and suddenly you see rolling fields, cliffs and mountains, wind running through a forest. every day i wish that i could understand every language of the universe so that it can be more than music to my ears.

‘I would like you not to forget me’

She whispered with her last breath,

A grave demand it was, the wish to keep for her

a page of memory, warped and stained

By time’s tender erosion, and fill it with lavender and rose,

What matter if the world should burn and fall

to ruin faraway, a graveyard is a desecration to

the song of the earth written in the stars,

I’d forsake heaven and the angels

for a glimpse of your hand,

eternity can scream into the abyss,

and all I ask is to have you buried beside me.

Lone stars to be my long forgotten secrets,

And the night sky depraved of her jewels to be

My heart, the calls of the woods are drowned out

by the voice of the ocean, singing with

all the sweetness of a pathway home.

Amidst the never-ending hush of the port that harbours lost souls,

The trees can only ache for the archangel’s love,

home’s beneath the world, where the body of the

Captain’s sweetheart lies, washed away by

the clawing tide, into the veiled hearts of the

Pearls scattered upon the shore, lost forevermore

To the flowing hold of the sea and the earth.

It’s an autumn twilight and the valley of violets has

yet to spare a rose

for the lovers lying dead by the cove.

when you get this, please respond with five things that make you happy! then, send to your last ten people in your notifs (anonymously). you never know who might benefit from spreading positivity♡

Thank you for the ask!

1. Walks alone with no destination where I can gather lots and lots of weeds and ferns and just wander as I please.

2. Keeping all the doors and windows open during rain.

3. Some odd songs that are just so dear and impossibly sweet that you want to throw your arms around them.

4. Old chocolate wrappers.

5. Finding silly notes written in book margins long ago.

when you get this, please respond with five things that make you happy! then, send to your last ten people in your notifs (anonymously). you never know who might benefit from spreading positivity♡♡♡

Thank you!

1. Kitten’s paws on table counters,I don’t know but that always makes me want to melt into puddle of awws and never let the poor cat go.

2. Stray wildflowers growing between the cracks in the footpath, can never have enough, all my old books are littered with little leaves and and flower spoil.

3. You know when it rains really hard and there are puddles everywhere and you can’t find a place wide enough to put your foot in and it’s like the earth has been broken into little glass pieces which you must not step on?

4. Finishing notebooks, particularly ones I’ve filled with midnight ramblings and things I’ve absentmindedly said to the doorknobs and curtains.

5. Someone, anyone, remembering me, and perhaps even sending me a message in spite of my extreme reluctance to initiate conversations.

And I can’t leave this one out, - learning something that I am not required to, I’ve an intense fixation with astrophysics, history and philosophy. my folks think it is a waste of time that could be spent reading my textbooks, thus it has also the sublime satisfaction of rebellion attached to it. So there’s that.

i’m thinking tonight about masterpieces. michelangelo looked at the sixtine chapel and saw; nothing to preserve. virgil wanted his aenid burned and forgotten; only to be saved at the behest of an emperor who thought it flattery. kafka instructed his friend to burn everything he’d ever written - too personal was it, too unfinished.

they were ignored.

instead, their work was taken and held and published and thrown to be gawked at. instead, an emperor, a pope, a friend, took from within the cavities of them their choices; their art.

tumblr rolls out post+. twitter rolls out tip jars. youtube takes half of what creators earn. on social media, there is a ko-fi or a patreon and a polished face in every bio. i show my poems to my mother and she asks if I will publish them before she says anything else. emily dickinson instructed her sister to burn her poetry.

her sister did not listen.

we are a community, says tumblr, we should give back to creators. my last poem had 50 notes. six of those were reblogs that weren’t mine. i lie in bed at 2am and stare at my bright phone screen and the way netflix’s library grows thinner and thinner. the first ad on tumblr that i can reblog is for amazon. amazon takes more than half of what authors earn.

kafka’s friend took barely finished work and hammered it into structure. he is the only reason we know of him.

my father wrote a book and a play when I was barely big enough to reach his knees. when i try to talk to him about writing, he shrugs.

no one wanted to publish it, he says. so i don’t write anymore.

i am filled with poems I have never published, books I haven’t written. There are little snippets of them scattered throughout my life. I link to my ko-fi on my tumblr.

-

asked capitalism of the artist: what is art, if not for consumption? who does art benefit, if it is not consumed? why create at all if you do not market it? who are you, frothing at the mouth about someone publishing someone else’s poems? who are you to hate your magnum opus? what is art, if not in relation to its reception? if no one sees it, how is it art?

said the artist, baring their teeth: it’s mine.

Courtney Peppernell, Pillow Thoughts.

Taking the hands of the maiden rumoured to be

Fairer than the naiads, you’ll dance among

the falling ruins of the golden city,

And let ripples of laughter collide with

the crashing wave of destruction, while the

Seas roar and Cetus ravages the coast of Aethiopia,

Flinging care into the ever-clouded face of the ocean,

Andromeda hid her grief beneath eyes bright and

Glistening, and avowed to dance till death looked

Sharp into her eyes, his face pale and haggard.

Thus came to a halt the whistling winds

And the singing sirens,

for the lord of the dead awaited none,

Some say the care she threw into the ocean,

Now lies buried amidst a wreath of bleeding hearts,

You’ll clasp it gently in your hands,

Were there ever ones more worthy?

And I’ll weave the hearts into a

Shroud for the lost daughter.

To be lit under the evening ablaze with the

Light of a thousand stars, all fallen.

“Dreams of a furnace, the warmth of the ember flickering upon the brick wall covered in the scrawls of innocent childhood, heavy clouds spread over the evening fading away into twilight, the eternal impermanence of the gently touching darkness and light surrounded the townhouse, awaiting the shrill shattering of the heart - held together and wrenched apart - by the forsaken ties of lost loves. will not a shard of glass pierce the trembling heart and end its agony, once and for all? And in the indifference of the glowering sky laid the ruin of kingdoms gone and kingdoms to come. The nymphs of wind care not about your sorrow, the angel of death and the moon kissed and parted last before the beginning of eternity. Run vainly to language and lay your wasted hands and tear stained face upon her breast, and spare nature her indifference.”

Me: wants to start a conversation with someone

Me: thinks about all the potential things that could go wrong and have gone wrong in the past

Me: keeps thinking about this for twenty days

Me: gathers enough courage to open the chat

Me: sees the last text message

Me: becomes extremely paranoid and reads hostility into the ‘ok’ that was received

Me: just fucking gives up trying to make friends

“Taking refuge in the abandoned terrace, forsaken by all but me, an odd squirrel or two, a lone bird, watched the crippling ivy of despair wound itself around the child of sorrow I had let in to warm herself by my slowly smouldering hearth. Gently she knelt, oh so softly she sang, bewitched me into thinking the house was freezing, coal upon coal I blindly shoved unto the fire, and whom was the blazing house to blame? for t’was never a home.”

do you ever get that really hollow feeling when you show someone something you like and they don’t necessarily appreciate or like it that much and it’s like you’ve just revealed the secret to retrieve the library of Alexandria to a hunchbacked old woman from the Victorian era who doesn’t know how to read?

“Is it better to be the reed in the spokes of a battle wheel which splinters the chariot of hope, or to be the reed of hope tugging away at the clench of the unrelenting mast of the sunken ship, lost to the world and leave the world to lose? Perhaps it finer to be the reed from which floats the soft and treacherous  note of love, with the feathered footfall of the madman or the angel, and leave it to the mania of insanity to find out which.”

Nightfall, hushed and frozen stood the world on its tiptoes,

As the earth and sky together cajole to sleep the

little baby in the dark house, all lonesome and weeping,

Swaying on a broken cradle, has the house god

found a way to stop the sunrise yet? He watches the baby

rise and fall, the house empty and his heart emptier,

The creaks of a cradle fall on a headless ear,

The shrieks of the baby pierce through a stiller air,

The tree top will bend to the wind and

down will come baby, cradle and all.

“Perhaps dawn is lovelier than twilight, allusive of the light that arises from darkness, the peaceful assurance that night does not last forever. Or the cold drawing away of the veil, the assertion that disturbance always mars the idyllic dream of nightfall.”

A shade of green, the colour of a mid-July swimming pool by the sea at sunset, the colour of lush forests, soothing, comforting, yet so intense a shadow just beneath the surface, lurking fleetingly by the corners, somehow synonymous with the gradual lavender that covers the sky at dawn.

White roses, it has always been white roses, with their inscrutable faces and slender thorns, the grotesque so beautifully encompassed in the lovely.

Ink blue skies smudge warmly the glow of the crescent moon,

Alone and hungry I haunt the night, revelling

in the Presence of an ever growing

Darkness, without and within.

The trees whispered approval in unison, as I watched

Wood pixies weave their ephemeral lace

to throw over the red carnation that stands

frozen in a ray of thwarted sunshine. Tell me, darling,

Will you not step out of the lane etched in stone?

Footfalls, wearied and cautious, along pathways treaded

by spectres once under the delusion of eternity,

A flaming hand reaches out to gently catch hold of your errant spirit,

In the daze of the ember’s flicker, stumbling I walk

Into the depths of nature’s winding heart.

“About every individual’s soul there is an unspoken loneliness, you might try and deny it, but it is the very intrinsic nature of the fabric of consciousness. And this void is the one we try and fill with despaired illusions of love and the pretension of not acknowledging it.”

Mortality constantly staring you in the face is a wonderful thing. Isn’t this one of the enduring harms inflicted by religion, imbuing everything with eternity? Perhaps this is why everyone does things as they do it. Death is shrouded by ritual and custom, and truth is masked under familiarity. You know you are going to die, but do you actually believe it?

*hints at eternally vague intentions*