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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

- Robert Frost

invisiblestories:

Gustaf Sobin (via slantedshanty)

invisiblestories:

Gustaf Sobin (via slantedshanty)

Yesterday, I ate a pomegranate
with my bare hands.
One of the seeds
had a perfect
puncture
wound, spitting red juice
up my arm.

For a moment,
I could understand
the grace in monsters.

- Benjamin Clime, Pomegranate I.  (via many-wings)

(Source: sonnywortzik, via sheinhartwigcompany)

supersonicelectronic:

Something’s Missing…

A thief drives to the museum in his black van. The night watchman says Sorry, closed, you have to come back tomorrow. The thief sticks the point of his knife in the guard’s ear. I haven’t got all evening, he says, I need some art. Art is for pleasure, the guard says, not possession, you can’t something, and then the duct tape is going across his mouth. Don’t worry, the thief says, we’re both on the same side. He finds the Dutch Masters and goes right for a Vermeer: "Girl Writing a Letter." The thief knows what he’s doing. He has a Ph.D. He slices the canvas on one edge from the shelf holding the salad bowls right down to the square of sunlight on the black and white checked floor. The girl doesn’t hear this, she’s too absorbed in writing her letter, she doesn’t notice him until too late. He’s in the picture. He’s already seated at the harpsichord. He’s playing the G Minor Sonata by Domenico Scarlatti, which once made her heart beat till it passed the harpsichord and raced ahead and waited for the music to catch up. She’s worked on this letter for three hundred and twenty years. Now a man’s here, and though he’s dressed in some weird clothes, he’s playing the harpsichord for her, for her alone, there’s no one else alive in the museum. The man she was writing to is dead— time to stop thinking about him—the artist who painted her is dead. She should be dead herself, only she has an ear for music a heart that’s running up the staircase of the Gardner Museum with a man she’s only known for a few minutes, but it’s true, it feels like her whole life. So when the thief hands her the knife and says you slice the paintings out of their frames, you roll them up, she does it; when he says you put another strip of duct tape over the guard’s mouth so he’ll stop talking about aesthetics, she tapes him, and when the thief puts her behind the wheel and says, drive, baby, the night is ours, it is the Girl Writing a Letter who steers the black van on to the westbound ramp for Storrow Drive and then to the Mass Pike, it’s the Girl Writing a Letter who drives eighty miles an hour headed west into a country that’s not even discovered yet, with a known criminal, a van full of old masters and nowhere to go but down, but for the Girl Writing a Letter these things don’t matter, she’s got a beer in her free hand, she’s on the road, she’s real and she’s in love. 
—Girl Writing a Letter | William Carpenter

supersonicelectronic:

Something’s Missing

A thief drives to the museum in his black van. The night 
watchman says Sorry, closed, you have to come back tomorrow. 
The thief sticks the point of his knife in the guard’s ear. 
I haven’t got all evening, he says, I need some art. 
Art is for pleasure, the guard says, not possession, you can’t 
something, and then the duct tape is going across his mouth. 
Don’t worry, the thief says, we’re both on the same side. 
He finds the Dutch Masters and goes right for a Vermeer: 
"Girl Writing a Letter." The thief knows what he’s doing. 
He has a Ph.D. He slices the canvas on one edge from 
the shelf holding the salad bowls right down to the 
square of sunlight on the black and white checked floor. 
The girl doesn’t hear this, she’s too absorbed in writing 
her letter, she doesn’t notice him until too late. He’s 
in the picture. He’s already seated at the harpsichord. 
He’s playing the G Minor Sonata by Domenico Scarlatti, 
which once made her heart beat till it passed the harpsichord 
and raced ahead and waited for the music to catch up. 
She’s worked on this letter for three hundred and twenty years. 
Now a man’s here, and though he’s dressed in some weird clothes, 
he’s playing the harpsichord for her, for her alone, there’s no one 
else alive in the museum. The man she was writing to is dead— 
time to stop thinking about him—the artist who painted her is dead. 
She should be dead herself, only she has an ear for music 
a heart that’s running up the staircase of the Gardner Museum 
with a man she’s only known for a few minutes, but it’s 
true, it feels like her whole life. So when the thief 
hands her the knife and says you slice the paintings out 
of their frames, you roll them up, she does it; when he says 
you put another strip of duct tape over the guard’s mouth 
so he’ll stop talking about aesthetics, she tapes him, and when 
the thief puts her behind the wheel and says, drive, baby, 
the night is ours, it is the Girl Writing a Letter who steers 
the black van on to the westbound ramp for Storrow Drive 
and then to the Mass Pike, it’s the Girl Writing a Letter who 
drives eighty miles an hour headed west into a country 
that’s not even discovered yet, with a known criminal, a van 
full of old masters and nowhere to go but down, but for the 
Girl Writing a Letter these things don’t matter, she’s got a beer 
in her free hand, she’s on the road, she’s real and she’s in love. 

Girl Writing a Letter | William Carpenter

(Source: supersonicart)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

-

Dulce et decorum est

Wilfred Owen

October October October October October October October.

October October October October October October October.

(Source: beautiful-leaves, via timetravelingscamp)

Gliding o’er all, through all,
Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul—not life alone,
Death, many deaths I’ll sing.

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

The four eng-
ineers
Wore orange
brassieres

- The Unrhymable Word: Orange by William Espy

Tags:

orange

poem

Girl Writing a Letter

Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid, Vermeer

A thief drives to the museum in his black van. The night
watchman says Sorry, closed, you have to come back tomorrow.
The thief sticks the point of his knife in the guard’s ear.
I haven’t got all evening, he says, I need some art.
Art is for pleasure, the guard says, not possession, you can’t
something, and then the duct tape is going across his mouth.
Don’t worry, the thief says, we’re both on the same side.
He finds the Dutch Masters and goes right for a Vermeer:
“Girl Writing a Letter.” The thief knows what he’s doing.
He has a Ph.D. He slices the canvas on one edge from
the shelf holding the salad bowls right down to the
square of sunlight on the black and white checked floor.
The girl doesn’t hear this, she’s too absorbed in writing
her letter, she doesn’t notice him until too late. He’s
in the picture. He’s already seated at the harpsichord.
He’s playing the G Minor Sonata by Domenico Scarlatti,
which once made her heart beat till it passed the harpsichord
and raced ahead and waited for the music to catch up.
She’s worked on this letter for three hundred and twenty years.
Now a man’s here, and though he’s dressed in some weird clothes,
he’s playing the harpsichord for her, for her alone, there’s no one
else alive in the museum. The man she was writing to is dead—
time to stop thinking about him—the artist who painted her is dead.
She should be dead herself, only she has an ear for music
a heart that’s running up the staircase of the Gardner Museum
with a man she’s only known for a few minutes, but it’s
true, it feels like her whole life. So when the thief
hands her the knife and says you slice the paintings out
of their frames, you roll them up, she does it; when he says
you put another strip of duct tape over the guard’s mouth
so he’ll stop talking about aesthetics, she tapes him, and when
the thief puts her behind the wheel and says, drive, baby,
the night is ours, it is the Girl Writing a Letter who steers
the black van on to the westbound ramp for Storrow Drive
and then to the Mass Pike, it’s the Girl Writing a Letter who
drives eighty miles an hour headed west into a country
that’s not even discovered yet, with a known criminal, a van
full of old masters and nowhere to go but down, but for the
Girl Writing a Letter these things don’t matter, she’s got a beer
in her free hand, she’s on the road, she’s real and she’s in love. 

—William Carpenter

Milos

let us take a sack of spray paint and spray paint over the paintings
let us dance through Paris
kiss in the shadow of the Louvre
crawl inside its windows
scrawl manifestos over the canvases
write Morse code on the sculptures
roll a sleeping bag on the floor to sleep inside of
tell one another a story by flashlight
unearth everything from before
bury each other inside the other
feed grapes to the ants
light fireworks in the fists of sleeping kings
kill a monarch
break back outside, find a world to do all these same things to, up, and upon, against break the bricks
climb over them
and when the sirens scream, laugh loud
 
hold my hand
and run fast
 
run through these streets with me with a bunch of bottles
a bucket of gasoline, a mouthful of matches
a pocketful of paintings and a fresh-faced batch of policemen to chase the fires we’re lighting
laugh on a shoulder of gold
 
and I thought that the museums were cemeteries where the dead pay the walls to hold what we have
so we can walk through what we once were
where children take their skulls to turn into gardens
to pluck for forefathers and farther stars
that on some nights resemble an armless mother praying for her arms to return
 
every tooth we tear from our jaw
to fling at the black-gloved riot soldiers as another shadow we are trying to lose
so every giggle is filled with lust
let us laugh this night away and I will fuck you like you were a prayer
I could save me by having my mouth around you
and I will hold you afterwards like
you were the pulpit and I was the sky
and this love that danced between that hardness
was a telephone line of holiness that those two things spoke through
 
take me into your heart like I was a saint
and you were a face of forgiveness
blooming in a valley destined to sink further
 
be a river with me
be the storm
the bend in the path
the front porch
the heat in the South
be a boot full of banjo strings
a fistful of written songs
a mouthful of chocolate dust
when they come to take us, stab them between the eyes
do not take your hand from around mine
make a fist with the other and punch spines like guilt
spit, sweat, kiss them like a grandmother
howl open-mouthed, terror love-filled
and when they come to cut our hair
and ask to hear penance come from inside of us
say with me loud and trembling but loud and clear
 
I have already emptied myself
I kissed regret goodbye
took the hands of another backwards angel and rode backwards into the rain
when the hangman of morrow comes to hang the sun in its daily execution
say this with me:
 
Sarah, we are apples
our love is an arrow
I’m unbuttoning my shirt
painting the circle over my heart
please, just shoot straight

—Anis Mojgani

Five Dogs

2.

Now that the great dog I worshipped for years
Has become none other than myself, I can look within
And bark, and I can look at the mountains down the street
And bark, at them as well. I am an eye that sees itself
Look back, a nose that tracks the scent of shadows
As they fall, an ear that picks up sounds
Before they’re born. I am the last of the platinum
Retrievers, the end of a gorgeous line.
But there’s no comfort being who I am.
I roam around and ponder fate’s abolishments
Until my eyes are filled with tears and I say to myself, “Oh, Rex,
Forget. Forget. The stars are out. The marble moon slides by.”

—Mark Strand

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine…
––Jacques Crickillon


You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and––somehow––
the wine.

—Billy Collins