#revmeg

King Arthur and the Weeping Queens, 1857, Dante Gabriel Rossetti

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“…The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.”

from “The Passing of Arthur” in Idylls of the King by Alfred Tennyson, in At the Still Point: A Literary Guide to Prayer in Ordinary Time compiled by Sarah Arthur, p. 226

Between 1916 and 1925 Paul Klee (1879–1940) created around fifty hand puppets for his son, Felix, of which thirty are still in existence. For the heads, the artist used materials from his own household: beef bones and electrical outlets, bristle brushes, leftover bits of fur, and nutshells.

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"…We talk Ceaselessly to things that can’t respond Or won’t respond. What are we talking for? We’re talking to coax hope and love from zero. We’re talking so the brain of the geode Will listen like a garden heliotrope And open its quartz flowers. We are talking Because speech is a sun, a kind of making."

"Dream" by Paul Hermann

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"You can be sad and clean and pure, if you go far enough inside yourself you are against yourself, or under yourself, like the Metro, the train cars tunneling life under life."

entr'acte 1924

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“…did you ever long for what seemed like the power of wind and water as they made their fleeting prowess known by moving things and then by moving on?”

Cat Anderson, Francine Winham

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…All of the books in my head have made me cynical and distant, but there’s a choir in him that calls me forward my disbelief built as it is from the bricks of his belief not in any America you might see on network news or hear heralded before a football game but in the quiet power of Sam Cooke singing that he was born by a river that remains unnamed that he runs alongside to this day, some vast and future country some nation within a nation, black as candor…

Midwestern teenage girls, 1944. Photo by Nina Leen.

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"…My father told me not to whistle because I was a girl. He gave me my first knife and said to keep it in my right Hand and to keep my right hand in my right pocket when I walked at night. He showed me the proper kind of fist and the sweet spot on the jaw To leverage my shorter height and upper-cut someone down. There were probably birds on the long walk home but I don’t Remember them because pastoral is not meant for someone With a fist in each pocket waiting for a reason."

"…I was my own storm once, so young and eager to raise the sail of my wanting, and I just wanted to tell you I love this old boat, this settled-in thing."

By: bruno sousa

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