god calls me on the payphone, tells me there aren’t enough magnolia trees in the garden. asks me a question. i spend my whole life answering it.
Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco

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@existential-celestial
god calls me on the payphone, tells me there aren’t enough magnolia trees in the garden. asks me a question. i spend my whole life answering it.
Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco

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“I have embraced the dawn of summer.”
— Arthur Rimbaud, from Selected Poems & Prose; “Dawn: Aube”
Summer grows tired. Her labor is in the soil but her reward is the harvest. It will be a feast of weeks. Autumn will turn the tree leaves into tounges of fire. They fall on each of us. This pentecost brings heaven in flames. Spreading in winds of utterance a gospel of provision. Of abundance.
from the abundance - wjm
the white angels are abloom 🌿
Paul Celan, from “Flower,” from Poetry (December 1971)

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Mary Oliver, from “August,” in featured in Poetry (August 1993)
Paul Celan, from “Flower,” from Poetry (December 1971)
T. S. Eliot, from “La Figlia che Piange,” in The Waste Land, Prufrock and Other Poems (Dover Publications, Inc., 1998).
Raymond Carver, “Hummingbird,” from All of Us: The Collected Poems
Nikolai Lantsov in Rule of Wolves (Leigh Bardugo)

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How was summer? some uninhabited hope asking some mild rain. Don’t forget July. The consciousness Light and Space an art where you flip through the pages. everywhere. − j. p. berame // How was summer?
Mary Oliver, from “Stanley Kunitz,” in Dream Work
magnolia
95×60mm(The image is processed into a pattern) , Eraser prints,
yasuko aoyama 10. 2016
“Now summer is in flower and natures hum”
— John Clare, opening line from “June”
“…June is past, the fading rose;”
— Thomas Carew, from “A Song”

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Rainer Maria Rilke in his letter to Franz Kappus, 16 July 1903, featured in Letters to a Young Poet (edited translation by Charlie Louth)
[id: believe in a love which is stored up for you like an inheritance, and trust that in this love there is a strength and a benediction out of whose sphere you do not need to step out even if your journey is a long one.]
“I would like to write you so simply, so simply, so simply. Without having anything ever catch the eye, accepting yours alone, […] so that above all the language remains self-evidently secret, as if it were being invented at every step, and as if it were burning immediately,”
— Jacques Derrida (b. 15 July 1930), from The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond