art i consume

"Poems are not written...", Andrey Voznesensky

"Two Phantoms", Vahan Teryan

"To Live...", Paruyr Sevak

"I love to love...", Paruyr Sevak

"Piano Lesson", Richard Siken

"Prayer", Marina Tsvetaeva (translated by Andrey Kneller)

"Two Morning Poems", Yevgeny Yevtushenko (translated by Anselm Hollo)

"Pomegranate", Sol Rios

"Cascando", Samuel Beckett

"Kissing in Vietnamese", Ocean Vuong

"To Say Dark Things ", Ingeborg Bachmann

"Ballad About A Smoke-Filled Wagon" (Don’t separate from your dear ones…), Alexander Kochetkov

"The Roses of Saadi" Marceline Desbordes-Valmore (Marie Felicite Josephe Desbordes)

"There Is a Gold Light in Certain Old Paintings", Donald Justice

"Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?", Mary Oliver

to go with my very long raven cycle quote list here

Adam. Adam Parrish was the destination of this road trip. Is there any version of you that could come with me to Cambridge? 

Adam. Ronan missed him like a lung.

He could feel his pulse thudding in his jaw. He could hear it in his ears. It sounded like everyone else’s heartbeat, he thought. Just like Adam’s heart when it was resting on his chest. 

Ronan’s attention stuck on his hands. Lovely boyish hands with prominent knuckles, gaunt and long like his unfamiliar face. “Who’s that?” Gansey had asked, and Ronan hadn’t answered, just kept hanging out the window. As they passed, Adam’s expression was all contradictions: intense and wary, resigned and resilient, defeated and defiant. Ronan hadn’t known anything about who Adam was then, and, if possible, he’d known even less about who he himself was, but as they drove away from the boy with the bicycle, this was how it had begun: Ronan leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes and sending up a simple, inexplicable, desperate prayer to God: please.