Jarod RosellĂł

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Jarod RosellĂł

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The things Iâve thought Iâve loved / could sink an ocean liner, and likely would / if given the chance.
Kaveh Akbar, âPortrait of the Alcoholic with HomeâŚâ (via thewastedgeneration)
Time Elapsed:
2014 - 2017
Death Fugue
by Paul Celan
Translation by John Felstiner
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night we drink and we drink we shovel a grave in the air there you wonât lie too cramped A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Marguerite he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling he whistles his hounds to come close he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground he orders us strike up and play for the dance
 Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening we drink and we drink A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margeurite your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air there you wonât lie too cramped He shouts jab this earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue jab your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening we drink and we drink a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margeurite your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays with his vipers
He shouts play death more sweetly Death is a master from Deutschland he shouts scrape your strings darker youâll rise then in smoke to the sky youâll have a grave then in the clouds there you wonât lie too cramped
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air he plays with his vipers and daydreams der Tod is ein Meister aus Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Shulamith
Alice asked the Cheshire Cat, who was sitting in a tree, âWhat road do I take?â The cat asked, âWhere do you want to go?â "I donât know," Alice answered. "Then," said the cat, "it really doesnât matter, does it?"
âLewis Carroll, Aliceâs Adventures in Wonderland (via bookmania)

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Dept. of Speculation
In this poor body, composed of one hundred bones and nine openings, is something called spirit, a flimsy curtain swept this way and that by the slightest breeze. It is spirit, such as it is, which led me to poetry, at first little more than a pastime, then the full business of my life. There have been times when my spirit, so dejected, almost gave up the quest, other times when it was proud, triumphant. So it has been from the very start, never finding peace with itself, always doubting the worth of what it makes.
Basho via: Whiskey River (via crashinglybeautiful)
Adults The sea lies in its bed wet and naked in the dark. Half a moon glimmers on it as though someone had come through a door with the light behind. The woman thinks of how they lived in the neighborhood for years while she belonged to other men. He moves toward her knowing he is about to spoil the way they didnât know each other.
Jack Gilbert, âAdultsâ
From Refusing Heaven (2005)
âi think / my most / prominent / emotional fantasy / is to find / someone / who loves me / enough / to kill me // but i donât know / that kind of / turns me on / so maybe it / should be my most / prominent / sexual fantasy insteadâ
 yab yum

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Are you married she asked and he said No as though it was not the answer heâd have preferred to give and so she said Do you have a woman and he said No and she said Does a woman have you and he pointed to the stars which spelled out No in the kind of way that could make you weep if youâd ever seen what a heart looks like when it is beating outside of a chest and so she said Well did you have a woman or Did a woman have you and he said Yes and took the subject and buried it in the ground and then built a fire over the subject to keep them warm at night.
Sasha Fletcher, âdown by the tracks, or, we all make a certain kind of sound in the dark,â published in Everyday Genius (via bostonpoetryslam)
Iâve been burning through a lot of matches and praying to nobody that the smoke detector wonât go off. Iâve been holding conversations with the moon. Sometimes she talks back more than you. Sometimes she doesnât. Itâs cold here now. The trees keep shaking their heads, stomping their boots, losing their patience. They are sick with want for new things. Or maybe I am sick with want for new things. Either way, I see temper tantrums everywhere I go. Iâve been having chest pains again when I think too much. Everything tastes a little bit like cinnamon and missing people that Iâm not supposed to miss anymore. My mother says that it finally smells like Fall. Something about crisp air and burning leaves and the scooped out insides of a pumpkin. I donât feel connected to anything.
"The Hardest Season" Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)
âBB: But you can never totally overcome the fear that thatâs all it is. You can go home every night and watch a film that makes you feel like someone spent ten years to make a great film, and you can find it beautiful, but in the morning when you wake up and have to do something you donât want to do, does that make it any better? Not really. Still, at the end of the day, the fact that those things do exist makes the act of sustaining your life and going forward at least have these roadside stops where youâre like, âYes, there are beautiful things, and there are things that make me think.â
BLVR: I picture it like each beautiful thing is a wedge that keeps a lid from closing over you. If that lid ever fully closes, you suffocate.
BB: I used to think about it like each thing thatâs created is one pixel in this face that weâll never see. It does transcend just being a movie or just being a book. It develops a network that we may never know the worth of. There is something in the interweaving of all these things that makes human life more valuable, to me and hopefully to something beyond human life, because if everyone dies and thereâs just all these movies left, then whatever. I think thereâs a lot more to be conceived and a lot more space to create before we exit this area that weâve sanctioned off as the only place we are.
BLVR: A great book or a great film may in the end only be a roadside stop, but making one is still enough for a lifetime to aspire to.
BB: I mean, what else is there to do? You canât beat yourself up that itâs artifice, because I would rather be the person creating artifice that no one else could have created than be a dentist where someone says, âYeah, you fixed my teeth, but I couldâve gone to this other dentist who wouldâve done the exact same thing.â
This is perfect. I've searched for these words since ~age twelve.
I never thought Michiko would come back after she died. But if she did, I knew it would be as a lady in a long white dress. It is strange that she has returned as somebodyâs dalmatian. I meet the man walking her on a leash almost every week. He says good morning and I stoop down to calm her. He said once that she was never like that with other people. Sometimes she is tethered on the lawn when I go by. If nobody is around, I sit on the grass. When she finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap and we watch each otherâs eyes as I whisper in her soft ears. She cares nothing about the mystery. She likes it best when I touch her head and tell her small things about my days and our friends. That makes her happy the way it always did.
â Jack Gilbert, âAloneâ
What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak⌠It was born in the moments when we accumulated silent things within us.
Gaston Bachelard, Water and Dreams, cited by Seamus Heaney in âAn Open Letterâ (1983)

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Saint George and the Dragon
by Gustave Moreau
Date painted: 1889-90
Oil on canvas, 141 x 96.5Â cm
Collection: The National Gallery, London
You wonât allow me to go to school. I wonât become a doctor. Remember this: One day you will be sick.
Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girlÂ
This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous).
Hereâs the link
(via conansdoyles)