euyrdice

[euyrdice]

if tumblr goes down lets be duolingo friends

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Children in Gaza are not only losing their homes, but also their sight and limbs. The pain is unbearable for any mother to witness. My son Qais was badly injured in the recent attacks, and I have no money to treat him. I beg you from the bottom of my heart—please help me save my child. Any donation, no matter how small, can make a difference.

This is not an isolated case:

1. Many children are blinded by leftover Israeli ordnance or direct bombings.

2. Hospitals are overwhelmed and often refuse treatment without payment.

3. Mothers like me are left helpless, unable to provide food or medical care.

Please don’t look away. If you can see this, then you still have the power to act. Qais is only two years old, and he deserves to heal, to play, and to live. Help me give him that chance. Share, support, Donate—whatever you can.

Donate Now Here

Please stop ✋🚨 you're the only hope to save a child😔😭

Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #64 )🍉🇵🇸

[euyrdice]

white swan by kiki smith, 1999, iris print on paper, 18.5 × 25.6 inches

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the death of my dog the stretch of my skin its all washin over me i’m angry again !!!!

noah kahan ill never not love ur music white guy

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noah kahan ill never not love ur music white guy

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the self-indulgent fanfiction will continue until morale improves

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please don't piss me off i need to be a sweetie pie to keep my heart alive

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my plan to find a (likely theatre) job that supplies housing for at least the summer/six months is falling apart unfortunately

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Mary Oliver, from “the fourth sign of the zodiac” published in Blue Horses

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Susan Sontag, from a diary entry featured in Reborn: Journals & Notebooks, 1947 - 1963

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Sylvia Plath, from a letter featured in The Letters of Sylvia Plath Vol. 1: 1940-1956

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In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”

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won't beef with people younger than me because that's embarrassing for me. won't beef with people older than me because that's embarrassing for them. won't beef with people my age because i know we both have better shit to be doing. peace and lovr on planet earth

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High school students listen to a Black Panther speech, 1969. By Hiroji Kubota

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hey americans there is a recall on testosterone gel because they found benzene in it! please check the lot numbers on your batches, benzene is really not something you want to be rubbing into your skin, also you might be eligible for compensation because this is just insane what the fuck

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i adore being confronted with the staggering breadth of what individual people can get obsessed with. there's nothing better than having That One Mutual with an advanced degree in ancient greek tragedy who writes minecraft youtube fanfiction to remind you that anyone can love anything