To receive the light / and return it
Jorie Graham, from “Two Paintings by Gustav Klimt,” The Dream of the Unified Field: Selected Poems 1974-1994 (via wethinkwedream)
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To receive the light / and return it
Jorie Graham, from “Two Paintings by Gustav Klimt,” The Dream of the Unified Field: Selected Poems 1974-1994 (via wethinkwedream)

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Speaking of marvels, I am alive / together with you,
Lisel Mueller, from Alive Together: Poems; “Alive Together,” (via violentwavesofemotion)
what resembles the grave but isn't
Always falling into a hole, then saying “ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying “ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying “this is not your grave, get out of the hole”; sometimes being pushed, saying “you can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,” and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying “this is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,” all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually; sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole there’s just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplating the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying “look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t!“
"that which resembles the grave but isn’t”
I do not know what gorgeous thing the bluebird keeps saying, his voice easing out of his throat, beak, body into the pink air of the early morning. I like it whatever it is. Sometimes it seems the only thing in the world that is without dark thoughts. Sometimes it seems the only thing in the world that is without questions that can’t and probably never will be answered, the only thing that is entirely content with the pink, then clear white morning and, gratefully, says so.
“What Gorgeous Thing”, Mary Oliver. (via kuanios)

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Red-winged Blackbird by Ted Ardley Photography on Flickr.
striking and beautiful
“It is difficult to speak of the night” (Jack Gilbert)
It is difficult to speak of the night. It is the other time. Not an absence of day. But where there are no flowers to turn away into. There is only this dark and the familiar place of my body. And the voices calling out of me for love. This is not the night of the young: their simple midnight of fear. Nor the later place to employ. This dark is a major nation. I turn to it at forty and find the night in flood. Find the dark deployed in process. Clotted in parts, in parts flowing with lights. The voices still keen of the divorce we are born into. But they are farther off, and do not interest me. I am forty, and it is different. Suddenly in mid passage I come into myself. I leaf gigantically. An empire yields unexpectedly: cities, summer forests, satrapies, horses. A solitude: an enormity. Thank god.

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in this late impossible daybreak / all the blue flowers open.
Muriel Rukeyser, from The Complete Poems; “Resurrection of the Right Side,” (via violentwavesofemotion)
A hummingbird’s nest. Photo from here
The Colfax Chronicle, Louisiana, March 9, 1912
Short-toed Tree Creeper ~ Boomkruiper by foto-hobby on Flickr.
what a cute lil creeper

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Autumn Kitty by Афиногенова Татьяна
Charles Simic, ‘Totemism’, from Dime-Store Alchemy: The Art of Joseph Cornell
my teacher dropping truths. honored to be in his last class. thank you, Charlie, for being.