Poetry
Yufa and
Poetry
“Many variations of wording can be found in both versions of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ as they have been set down over the years. In fact, surviving manuscript copies in Burns’s own hand are not identically worded.”
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats • To Autumn
Faith Hahn and
A poem by Michelangelo.
In poetry, there is never a one-to-one correspondence between a word and its meaning. Instead, each word builds upon the words previous and the words that come after, and the poet chooses words not only for their sound but also their multiple meanings. Like herbs added to a soup or subtones and overtones in musical composition, each word adds not... See more
Rhyd Wildermuth • The Elements of Man: A Mythic Framework for Masculinity — RITONA // A Beautiful Resistance
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean-- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down -- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her
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Funeral inspo. But also life inspiration. Hold space for inconveniences. Show up raw. Give space to the ugly versions of you so they can live and die.
The original poem this piece is built on is called ‘Tract’ - written by William Carlos William (whose work was a muse for the film Paterson).
Fierce insistence on the felicitous expression of nature in human nature, with our capacity for music and mathematics, for art and hope.
The late great Mary Oliver’s advice for life ❣️
“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”
instagram.comMary Oliver: Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches–
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead–
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging–
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted–
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.