— W. S. Merwin (via likeafieldmouse)
“The warm halo of the red tubes, the perpetually alert stance of the assailant, the victim’s momentary fringe of disheveled hair. How sad that the second silhouette must inevitably fall to that two-by-four, but how encouraging that he inevitably finds the wherewithal to pick himself up again.”
I don’t breathe when I listen to this song.
Yearning for permanence, and who wouldn’t?
Longing to believe it will last forever,
But what does? Nothing I know of.
Even the things that seem to stand still
Flow slowly into other forms.
The beloved’s first and only lesson:
Everything that is, becomes.
— Gregory Orr, ”Yearning for permanence, and who wouldn’t,” from River Inside the River: Three Lyric Sequences (W. W. Norton & Co., 2013)
went back and deleted every “read more” break from my journal posts. used them out of fear. would rather not hide my words in false deference to discretion anymore. if it or my posts bother anyone, let me know.
lot of late nights lately. been trying to write a poem for a friends birthday, turned into something about death. at least in the poem it edifies life, idk. will post it here, probably. been a weird summer, a good one, i think. been blessed with a couple of good friends. i have to make myself stop and take account of who i am, like all this shit is just one good night before a daytime of being a lonely middle schooler again. maybe that means i’m grateful, i’m enchanted. i’d like to feel a lot more than i have to, rather than disassociating from the feelings i do have. that frank ocean letter brings out a lot of the longing i suppress, a lot of the dissatisfaction and alienation. it feels like a catch in my throat. i create the worlds i want to be a part of, that i want to love me. haven’t in a while, until tonight. for now it’s a lot of trying to be present, trying to see magic. a lot of long nights.
i came back to this tonight… i wanna keep coming back to this. this is important to me.
The trees are dark ruins of temples,
Seeking excuses to crumble
Since who knows when—
Their roofs are cracked,
Their doors lost to ancient winds.
And the sky is a priest,
Saffron marks on his forehead,
Ashes smeared on his body.
He sits by the temples, worn to a shadow, not looking up.
Some terrible magician, hidden behind curtains,
Has hypnotized Time
So this evening is a net
In which the twilight is caught.
Now darkness will never come—
And there will never be morning.
The sky waits for this spell to be broken,
For History to tear itself from this net,
For Silence to break its chains
So that a symphony of conch shells
May wake up the statues
And a beautiful, dark goddess,
Her anklets echoing, may unveil herself.
— Faiz Ahmed Faiz, “Evening,” translated from Urdu to English by Agha Shahid Ali.