1 week ago - 
1
1
2 weeks ago - 7
7
Lorca’s Dream
They tell me that your clavicle
is a star over Andalucia
that your melancholic metacarpals
still clutch a clod of earth in Savilla
that your hips have not ceased dancing
in La Habana like in New York
that jasmines bloom in your eye sockets
and every petal a poem
that your jaw bone is the voice of all
the silenced ones, the undocumented ones
those insulted and executed
that the moon cradles your bones Fedrico
fragile as hummingbird wings
That’s what I was told one silvery night
by the hip red ants
that sleep in your cranium
Jonas Mekas//Walden at 2am
He makes my heart a cinemascope screen showing the dancing birds of paradise.
(Source: Spotify)
1 month ago - 4
4 
(Source: likeafieldmouse, via potentialitea)
I searched for it, found it, recognized it.
(Czeslaw Milosz, “A Meadow”)
The field your memory singled out for
special treatment can be located by you still:
the one the sun would always make
an extra fuss about, buff until it gleamed
like a copper pan suspended in the oak-
beamed kitchen of your manor house.
Take the well-worn path of memory.
Nothing is beyond recovery. No one has died.
For, as you yourself have prophesied,
The rivers will return to their beginnings … .
The dead will wake up, not comprehending.
Till everything that happened has unhappened.
Open the gate. Lean against the haystack.
Look where you were taken by her lips.
Where the old horse-drawn rake, weeds
stuck between its teeth, was rusting.
Where a cow stood ruminating over
sow thistles or in hock to clover and buttercup.
Where the greedy bees make a dash
for the linden grove and light filled in
the gaps between the apple trees.
Where heart-fluttering butterflies clapped wings.
Where green hay, toppled by scythes, soaked up
heat like berries ripening for preserves.
Home in time, you find your bearings there
among sweet calamus and whirring snipe.
(Czeslaw Milosz, “A Meadow”)
special treatment can be located by you still:
an extra fuss about, buff until it gleamed
beamed kitchen of your manor house.
Nothing is beyond recovery. No one has died.
The rivers will return to their beginnings … .
Till everything that happened has unhappened.
Look where you were taken by her lips.
stuck between its teeth, was rusting.
sow thistles or in hock to clover and buttercup.
for the linden grove and light filled in
Where heart-fluttering butterflies clapped wings.
heat like berries ripening for preserves.
among sweet calamus and whirring snipe.
Dennis O’Driscoll, Milosz’s Return (via myimaginarybrooklyn)
(Source: darknessbecomesme, via editionaladdictions)
