Jiro Yoshihara, Blue Calligraphic Lines on Dark Blue, 1963

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@leafwaves
Jiro Yoshihara, Blue Calligraphic Lines on Dark Blue, 1963

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cardĂacos (ardĂamos) (by jordiciurana)
Currently obsessed with Hungryâs work. So good, so refreshing.
The silent world of Jan Mankes
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Amelia HumberďźBritishďź
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Fran MoraďźSpanish, b.1979ďź
here and here
To be truly yours, this poem should be written in the language of silence.
Ruth Kessler, from âIn the Language of Silence,â (via violentwavesofemotion)
âI have put my days and dreams out of mindâ For all their hurry and their weary fret Availed me little. But another kind Of leaf thatâs fast in some more sombre wind, Is man on life, and all our tenuous courses Wind and unwind as vainly. I have lived long, and died, Yea I have been dead, right often, And have seen one thing: The sun, while he is high, doth light our wrong And none can break the darkness with a song. To-dayâs the cup. To-morrow is not ours: Nay, by our strongest bands we bind her not, Nor all our fears and our anxieties Turn her one leaf or hold her scimitar. The deed blots out the thought And many thoughts, the vision; And rightâs a compass with as many poles As there are points in her circumference, âTis vain to seek to steer all courses even, And all things save sheer right are vain enough. The blade were vain to grow save toward the sun, And vain thâ attempt to hold her green forever. All things in season and no thing o'er long! Love and desire and gain and good forgetting, Thou canst not stay the wheel, hold none too long!
ezra pound (via maralie)

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Human love, human trust, are always perilous, because they break down. The greater the love, the greater the trust, and the greater the peril, the greater the disaster. Because to place absolute trust in another human being is in itself a disaster, both ways, since each human being is a ship that must sail its own course, even if it goes in company with another ship.
AnaĂŻs Nin, from D.H. Lawrence: An Unprofessional Study;Â âPattern of a Life,â (via violentwavesofemotion)
The still explosions on the rocks, the lichens, grow by spreading, gray, concentric shocks. They have arranged to meet the rings around the moon, although within our memories they have not changed. And since the heavens will attend as long on us, youâve been, dear friend, precipitate and pragmatical; and look what happens. Â For Time is nothing if not amenable. The shooting stars in your black hair in bright formation are flocking where, so straight, so soon? â Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin, battered and shiny like the moon.
Elizabeth Bishop, âThe Shampooâ (via lifeinpoetry)
We are not those who burnt, because flames were deemed too showy for wilting flowers except when fire was chosen as the only way to teach us again how to be silent We are those who march with our own pace, our hearts hollow diamonds capable of engulfing all the rivers of the Earth and love them equally We are those who were running on the island which still remembers us and calls to us, racing the wind and the goddesses, verses in our heads and violets tangled in our hands We are those defying the implicit rules in the chaotic city we loved and hated and spited and the world buried us under heaps of parchment which would make people feel for centuries We are mothers and daughters of the same name, walking different parts of Europe in different years, asking for rights or inventing the modern novel during a storm â how appropriate We are those who let words flow from our pen in letters similar to streams and novels to rivers, always water surrounding us, water we would ultimately embrace We are those conjoining under a bright and coloured southern sky after the grey and brown of a city where only others seemed to be able to write, because between us two we had the Earth and the Moon We are all of those, and more anonymous legions still, forgotten but alive, trampled on but with our eyes intact and our voices sharpened like knives We are, after all, daughters of so many goddesses; you thought you were naming storms after us â it is we who created them
We Were Just Allowed to Breathe and Yet Hurricanes are Female, E.M.F. (via we-thestories)
I really think it needs to be drilled into every capitalistâs head that their ideology is going to cause long-term agricultural collapse. Iâm serious. The concept of profit is the sole reason why we havenât found a solution to global warming yet, and global warming will make vast swaths of land either uninhabitable or unsuitable for the growth of modern crop yields. No matter how many times people uncritically repeat canned anti-communist, anti-socialist, or anti-leftist rhetoric, there is no escaping the fact that the necessity of profit in a capitalist economy has directly caused an environmental catastrophe that is likely to kill more than a billion people.
Margaret Atwood
Margaret Atwood goes up to the counter, but the Starbucks is no longer serving coffee. In fact, coffee has ceased to be manufactured. Atwood recalls the taste of coffeeâ sweet and bitter, a little melancholyâ but she canât quite recreate it perfectly. Itâs gone, like the world she once knew, a whisper on the winds across the unknowable ocean. She leaves the Starbucks. The streets are empty. Her footsteps echo as she crosses the pavement, heads out of the city into fields, which brush against her body as she moves through them. She can nearly see the ocean. She gets into a van that will take her to somewhere.

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I shouldnât put my heart to such tests, now that Iâve been informed of its imperfections; yet I take a perverse delight in doing this, as if I am a bully and it is a small whining child whose weaknesses I despise.
Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via bethanyetc)
You want the air but not the words that come with it: breathe at your peril.
Margaret Atwood, Excerpt of Two-Headed Poems from Two-Headed Poems (via florizels)