"But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought."
- George Orwell, Politics and the English Language (via man-of-prose)

Amy Lowell: Penumbra

As I sit here in the quiet Summer night,
Suddenly, from the distant road, there comes
The grind and rush of an electric car.
And, from still farther off,
An engine puffs sharply,
Followed by the drawn-out shunting scrape of a freight train.   
These are the sounds that men make
In the long business of living.
They will always make such sounds,
Years after I am dead and cannot hear them.
Sitting here in the Summer night,
I think of my death.
What will it be like for you then?
You will see my chair
With its bright chintz covering
Standing in the afternoon sunshine,
As now.
You will see my narrow table
At which I have written so many hours.
My dogs will push their noses into your hand,   
And ask—ask—
Clinging to you with puzzled eyes.

The old house will still be here,
The old house which has known me since the beginning.   
The walls which have watched me while I played:   
Soldiers, marbles, paper-dolls,
Which have protected me and my books.
The front-door will gaze down among the old trees   
Where, as a child, I hunted ghosts and Indians;   
It will look out on the wide gravel sweep
Where I rolled my hoop,
And at the rhododendron bushes
Where I caught black-spotted butterflies.
The old house will guard you,
As I have done.
Its walls and rooms will hold you,
And I shall whisper my thoughts and fancies   
As always,
From the pages of my books.

You will sit here, some quiet Summer night,   
Listening to the puffing trains,
But you will not be lonely,
For these things are a part of me.
And my love will go on speaking to you
Through the chairs, and the tables, and the pictures,   
As it does now through my voice,
And the quick, necessary touch of my hand.

Amy Lowell Penumbra poem poetry

gentlewave:

Pieter Bruegel the Elder (c. 1525-1569): Parable of the Sower, [detail], 1557, oil on panel, 73.7 x 102.9 cm, Timken Museum of Art, San Diego, USA, source: doportugalprofundo.blogspot.com.

gentlewave:

Pieter Bruegel the Elder (c. 1525-1569): Parable of the Sower, [detail], 1557, oil on panel, 73.7 x 102.9 cm, Timken Museum of Art, San Diego, USA, source: doportugalprofundo.blogspot.com.

"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."
- George Orwell, 1984 (via man-of-prose)
hideback:

William Blake (English, 1757-1827)
Jacob’s Dream, 1800
And as we wind on down the roadOur shadows taller than our soul There walks a lady we all knowWho shines white light and wants to showHow everything still turns to gold.
- Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, 1971

hideback:

William Blake (English, 1757-1827)

Jacob’s Dream, 1800

And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold.

- Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, 1971

(via chance-a-simple-gardener)

"Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love."
- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via floatingonatidalwave)
uutpoetry:

The Deuteronomy of Unbudded Rose Shoulders
Logan Ellis (unknowmenclature)
Grinding how muchthe visceral climb of atrophyfrom jaw to lower lipand back around the carousel?
Exactly how long have you been told that emptiness eats through the face?I’m beginningto feel my head caveand stutter like the sorrowfully revved enginesof all the cars we’ve seen parkedon the side of the highwayfor too long, ora childhood bicycle’s forever spoke, trading cardstorn into leisure limbs,wisping with the wind.
Soon enough, you’ll spin just as continuouslynext to my dissected throatand tumble, mad—dreamingly.What you’ll findin that bottomlesspitwill change your life forever,and mine(?), just digestion—a belch.
Soon enough, I will eat you alive, but I won’t want to, Iwon’t want to.
art: “Lamprey Woman” by Amanda Murrin

uutpoetry:

The Deuteronomy of Unbudded Rose Shoulders

Logan Ellis (unknowmenclature)

Grinding how much
the visceral climb of atrophy
from jaw to lower lip
and back around the carousel?

Exactly how long have you been told 
that emptiness eats through the face?
I’m beginning
to feel my head cave
and stutter like the sorrowfully revved engines
of all the cars we’ve seen parked
on the side of the highway
for too long, or
a childhood bicycle’s forever spoke, 
trading cards
torn into leisure limbs,
wisping with the wind.

Soon enough, you’ll spin just as continuously
next to my dissected throat
and tumble, mad—dreamingly.
What you’ll find
in that bottomless
pit
will change your life forever,
and mine(?), just digestion—a belch.

Soon enough, I will eat you alive, 
but I won’t want to, I
won’t want to.

art: “Lamprey Woman” by Amanda Murrin

"I am two women: one wants to have all the joy, passion and adventure that life can give me. The other wants to be a slave to routine, to family life, to the things that can be planned and achieved. I’m a housewife and a prostitute, both of us living in the same body and doing battle with each other."
- Paulo Coelho, Eleven Minutes

(Source: astrolocherry)