at close of day by maxfield parrish / “i know the end” by phoebe bridgers
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@tagetess
at close of day by maxfield parrish / “i know the end” by phoebe bridgers

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Walt Whitman, “You, Day, Old Age and Night”, Leaves of Grass
[Text ID: “The Night follows close with millions of suns, and sleep and restoring darkness.”]
Mythology | Ægir [Aegir] Personification of the sea
“October, crisp, misty, golden October, when the light is sweet and heavy.”
— Angela Carter, The Magic Toyshop. (via ablogwithaview)
Prompts (for High School Teachers Who Write Poetry)
Write about walking into the building as a new teacher. Write yourself hopeful. Write a row of empty desks. Write the face of a student you’ve almost forgotten; he’s worn a Derek Jeter jersey all year. Do not conjecture about the adults he goes home to, or the place he calls home. Write about how he came to you for help each October morning his sophomore year. Write about teaching Othello to him; write Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven. Write about reading his obituary five years after he graduated. Write a poem containing the words “common” “core,” “differentiate,” and “overdose.” Write the names of the ones you will never forget: “Jenna,” “Tiberious,” “Heaven,” “Megan,” “Tanya,” “Kingsley” “Ashley,” “David.” Write Mari with “Nobody’s Baby” tattooed in cursive on her neck, spitting sixteen bars in the backrow, as little white Mike beatboxed “Candy Shop” and the whole class exploded. Write about Zuly and Nely, sisters from Guatemala, upon whom a thousand strange new English words rained down on like hail each period, and who wrote the story of their long journey on la bestia through Mexico, for you, in handwriting made heavy by the aquís and ayers ached in their knuckles, hidden by their smiles. Write an ode to loose-leaf. Write elegies on the nub nose of a pink eraser. Carve your devotion from a no. 2 pencil. Write the uncounted hours you spent fretting about the ones who cursed you out for keeping order, who slammed classroom doors, who screamed “you are not my father,” whose pain unraveled and broke you, whose pain you knew. Write how all this added up to a life.
Dante Di Stefano

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Anna Kamienska, from A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook.
when james baldwin said “you think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. it was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, who had ever been alive.” I felt that big, big time
Found craigslist image John Baldessari’s painting - EVERYTHING IS PURGED FROM THIS PAINTING BUT ART, NO IDEAS HAVE ENTERED THIS WORK (1966)
History student falls in love with astrophysics student by Keaton St. James
(patreon)
Keep reading
The colour of the sky changes and shifts
from blue
to orange
to red
to dread
to early mourning.
a whale screams and fights
for her sure death,
throws herself
to the rocky shore, as if
her breath is a fair sacrifice to the rocks,
cold, blue,and jagged,
like teeth,
ripping the soul out of her.
There are no cuts or grazes,
or signs of rot,
just a lonely body holding the space
she used to occupy,
like a splash of red on the cruel blue,
with no drop of water in sight.
It’s ocean stranding gone wrong,
and the air fills
with screaming and salt
that the shore rejects
and throws back to the ocean.
-ocean stranding, @stupid-poetry

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91-99, david peak
[ID: “is what I really want to be unrecognizable?
or to melt” end ID]
Rose Gold Froth | © Jenna Marie
pen ink bleeds paper. marks it black with permanent indecision. you scratched out the last line; you underlined their name three times, you scribbled “thought” twice. you slanted your “t"s, your "r"s look like "e"s you add in loops where there shouldn’t be. you’d like to write in times roman script, to be perfectly neat but your fat notebooks, describe a scrawled head, that thinks and ticks and considers a world wider than themselves; and that what you had once learnt, you’d styled into your own.
(via driftlight)
inspired by posts like this one e.e cummings,”i carry your heart with me”// margaret atwood, selected poems (1965-1975) // virginia woolf, “night and day”

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Orbits. Guide to the Planets. 1955. Cover art.
requiem for my youth
I grew up on an out of tune piano
A certain longing in my soul,
the ivory misplaced in my bones
Instead of on the keys
My mom would play infrequently
But only in soft chords and muted harmony
Like she was afraid, like she could only be sad
when that sadness was the first movement
Maybe that stuck in me, arms outstretched
Using a phone book to reach the keys
My hands too small, too quiet
never enough to play the whole chord