Thursday, April 24, 2014

(Source: methedras)

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Trying to get through the week

whatshouldwecallme:

Slam

kingaburza:

Ile de Re’s most famous Rose Tremiere black lit against golden hour

Ramène-moi à la plage où clignotent les six phares. Je veux seulement les fleurs et le calme d”île de Ré pour aujourd’hui.

kingaburza:

Ile de Re’s most famous Rose Tremiere black lit against golden hour

Ramène-moi à la plage où clignotent les six phares. Je veux seulement les fleurs et le calme d”île de Ré pour aujourd’hui.

Il pleure dans mon cœur
Comme il pleut sur la ville ;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon cœur ?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un cœur qui s’ennuie
Ô le chant de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce cœur qui s’écœure.
Quoi ! Nulle trahison ?…
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C’est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon cœur a tant de peine !

Verlaine

[“Il pleut doucement sur la ville” - Arthur Rimbaud]

(via ledragondemerfeuillu)

Le véritable esprit de Spleen…

essemali:

"Ce que je sens, c’est un immense découragement, une sensation d’isolement insupportable, une peur perpétuelle d’un malheur vague, une défiance complète de mes forces, une absence totale de désirs, une impossibilité de trouver un amusement quelconque… Je me demande sans cesse : à quoi bon ceci ? A quoi bon cela ? C’est là le véritable esprit de Spleen…"

Charles Baudelaire - Correspondance, 30 décembre 1857

you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you’re young, whatever life you wear

It will become you;and if you are glad
whatever’s living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love

whose any mystery makes every man’s
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time

that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation’s dead undoom.

I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

ee cummings (via create-destroy-repeat)

life is more true than reason will deceive
(more secret or than madness did reveal)
deeper is life than lose:higher than have
—but beauty is more each than living’s all

multiplied with infinity sans if
the mightiest meditations of mankind
canceled are by one merely opening leaf
(beyond whose nearness there is no beyond)

or does some littler bird than eyes can learn
look up to silence and completely sing?
futures are obsolete:pasts are unborn
(here less than nothing’s more than everything)

death,as men call him, ends what they call men
-but beauty is more now than dying’s when

ee cummings, Life is More True Than Reason Will Deceive (via ringtales)

e.e Cummings

terriannbird:

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
for even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

solitaryember:

E.E. Cummings // l(a

solitaryember:

E.E. Cummings // l(a

amilliontinybits:

I’m having a “what if” kind of day and this was a cool poem that made me think about why I am where I am for the time being. e e cummings is great.

amilliontinybits:

I’m having a “what if” kind of day and this was a cool poem that made me think about why I am where I am for the time being. e e cummings is great.

solemnly myselves ask “life, the question how do i drink dream smile

and how do i prefer this face to another and why do i weep eat sleep-what does the whole intend”

e.e cummings (via r-d-w)

let’s live suddenly without thinking

under honest trees,
a stream
does.the brain of cleverly-crinkling
-water pursues the angry dream
of the shore. By midnight,
a moon
scratches the skin of the organised hills

an edged nothing begins to prune

let’s live like the light that kills
and let’s as silence,
because Whirl’s after all:
(after me)love,and after you.
I occasionally feel vague how
vague idon’t know tenuous Now-
spears and The Then-arrows making do
our mouths something red,something tall

Let’s Live Suddenly Without Thinking, E.E. Cummings (via cannonbonecracks)
Tuesday, April 22, 2014

"More than anything…"

"More than anything…"

(Source: thparkaly)

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddle strings and harps, drums and tambourines I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony. Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via larmoyante)
Where do you think Van Gogh rates in the history of art?

(Source: btyciane)