Latest Posts by reputation3ra - Page 2

KENYA. 1980. People in the village of Voi, looking at the eclipse through smoked glass protection.

© Jean Gaumy

tumblr is so great it’s like the diary is talking back

you’ll hear me howling outside your door

Miller's Girl (2024)

The Year of Blue Water, Yanyi.

If you persevere, in time you will have an entirely different problem – not that life is meaningless, but rather that life has almost too much meaning. As the scales fall from your eyes the world rushes into focus, presenting itself with a kind of vibrational eloquence that can, at first, be almost overwhelming. Everything shimmers, everything clarifies, everything wrestles for your attention. Trees feel super-real, their roots plunged into the earth, their branches stretching to the sky, birds are flesh and blood souls, fragile with life, the sky unfolds and rolls, the ocean crashes, people fascinate, books are beautiful, children are whirling dynamos of chaos, dogs bark and cats meow, flowers shout, your neighbour glows, and God runs like a helix through all things. The world awaits you, humming with meaning. You are alive with potential. You are not dead.

— Nick Cave on getting clean, Red Hand Files #258

But Love Was The Archer, 2024

Colored pencil, acrylic, and ink on bristol

[thank you xkcd]

April 6, 1963

“I want you to do this with me for one month. One month. Write 10 observations a week and by the end of four weeks, you will have an answer. Because when someone writes about the rustic gutter and the water pouring through it onto the muddy grass, the real pours into the room. And it’s thrilling. We’re all enlivened by it. We don’t have to find more than the rustic gutter and the muddy grass and the pouring cold water.”

— Marie Howe, Boston University’s 2016 Theopoetics Conference  (via mothersofmyheart)

“Somebody says draw a map. Populate it with the incidents of your childhood. Mark the spot where the lake receded after a winter of light snow. The stairs on which someone slapped you. The place where the family dog hung itself by jumping over the back fence while still on the dog run, hours later its body like a limp flag on a windless day. Draw a map, someone says. Let yourself remember. In the refugee camp a hundred thousand strong draw the stony outcrop from which you could no longer see the plume of smoke that was your village. Draw a square for the bathroom stall where Grandpa hid each day in order to eat his one egg free from the starving eyes of his classmates, an X for the courthouse where you and he were naturalized, a broken line for the journey. Draw a map, Jon says. Let it be your way into the poem. Here is where that plane filled with babies crashed that I was not on. Here is where I was ashamed. On the second floor at Pranash University the people wait their turn. Have you drawn your map, Jon asks. He has rolled up his sleeves. Forty-five minutes to noon the Prince stands up and says that the monks must be excused. We watch them file out, saffron robes as if their bodies have burst into blossom. Draw a map. Fly halfway around the globe. Here is the room next to the library where you realize how poor your tradition is, the local people with poetic forms still in use that date back to the time of Christ. Tell us about your map. Explain how these wavy lines represent the river, this rectangle the school-turned-prison where only seven escaped with their lives. This is my map. This star the place where I sat in a roomful of people among whom not one was not touched by genocide. Every last map resplendent with death though nobody knows where their loved ones lie buried. How many times can I appropriate a story that is not mine to tell? The woman stands up and says she is not a poet, that she doesn’t have the words. She points to a triangle on a piece of paper. Here is the spot where she found human bones in the well of her childhood home, and how her mother told her don’t be afraid because it was not the work of wild animals.”

— “Loose Strife,” by Quan Barry

“But even when I am afraid, I keep on trusting you.”

— Psalm 56:3

OUR LOVE IS AN OPEN WOUND

sierra demulder // haruki murakami // nikolay tolmachev // hieu minh nguyen // sierra demulder // osamu dazai.

“Mad, but beautifully mad, hypnotised by the gaze of the self into self,”

— Carolyn Kizer, from Cool, Calm & Collected: Poems; “Hera, Hung from the Sky,”

I have to remember how much it hurt. I can't make that same mistake again.

Oh no, oh no, he is seducing me with his deep passion for his field of study and his genuine joy at teaching people about it

how do i even explain Everywhere Everything All At Once? It’s got multiverse shenanigans, sapphics, kung fu, generational trauma, taxes, rocks, romance, sausages, immigration, laundry, ADHD, nihilism, absurdism, bagels, yin yang, existential crisis, the fear of being a failure and all your choices being wrong, coming out, acceptance, choosing love and kindness despite the coldness of the universe and it’s lack of meaning, dildos, butt plugs, milfs being badasses, girlbosses, malewives, scifi, depression, passive metaphors for suicide, mother issues, ratatouille, confetti, the IRS coming for your ass, James Hong

what is a movie someone could recommend u that would make u never trust their taste after

I miss him sooo much. I’m starting to feel like I imagined him🥺

from my normal girl board on pinterest :)

clippings from “women seeking women” personal ads in the baltimore sun, 1995

can you even tell this is one of my favourite poems

i need to get laid or alternatively be put down like a rabid dog but i seriously cannot keep acting like this

Joanna Klink, from Raptus

Jenny Holzer, Truisms, offset poster, 1978, 17 x 22 in.