Matthew Gray Gubler reading Edgar Allen Poe’s Annabellee
(via daylovescriminalminds)
“Sometimes when you mean hello I carry
you in my left ear for days. You go with me
to the grocery store for arguments
about the most beautiful head of broccoli
and salad. O, gorgeous bird, I dare us to go
on not caring. I have put down color all
over the map this week. Nobody has reached
me with their letters. I feel like two owls caught
with secret binoculars. Which is to say I
feel more than what I am. Which what
am I? Which does it hurt when two
people go on speaking? Call me and say
you are alive again.”
— Wendy Xu & Nick Sturm; “I Was Not Even Born When You Knew My Name” (via grammatolatry)
(via lifeinpoetry)
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood
Because a fire was in my head
And I cut and peeled a hazel wand
And hooked a berry with a thread
And when white moths were on the wing
And moth-like stars were flickering out
I dropped a berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame
But something rustled on the door
And someone called me by by name.
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossoms in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands
I will find out where she has goner
And kiss her lips and take her hands
And walk among long dappled grass
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun
“Let the darkness transform into rock
across the wilderness of my memory”
— Liu Xiaobo, from “Fifteen Years of Darkness,” trans. Jeffrey Yang (via proustitute)
“Stranded with you at the Ferris wheel’s apogee
I learned the physics
of desire—fixed at the center,
it spins and goes nowhere.”
— Nick Lantz, from “Ancient Theories” (via proustitute)
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that ‘round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —
“You are only a white and sweetly gentle cloud
entangled one night among ancient branches.”
— Cesare Pavese, from “Nocturne” (via proustitute)
The mockeries are not you,
Underneath them and within them I see you lurk,
I pursue you where none else has pursued you,
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the
accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others or from
yourself, they do not conceal you from me,
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these
balk others they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed,
premature death, all these I part aside.
