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green, green is my sister’s house | Mary Oliver

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“So I said: “please love me,” and what I meant was: please treat me gently. Please love me with a love that can be felt. That can be touched. A love that I can write about gracefully if and when it ends. Which I may look upon with pacific eyes, and say: “that was a good love. It had to end but it was good.””

Sue Zhao

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& a line I like

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St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Missouri, November 20, 1910

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Sleeping In the Forest, Mary Oliver

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Tea With Our Grandmothers

by Warsan Shire

The morning your habooba died I thought of my ayeeyo, the woman I was named after, Warsan Baraka, skin dark like tamarind flesh, who died grinding cardamom waiting for her sons to come home and raise the loneliness they’d left behind;

or my mother’s mother, Noura with the honeyed laugh, who broke cinnamon barks between her palms, nursing her husband’s  stroke, her sister’s cancer and her own bad back with broken Swahili and stubborn Italian;

and Doris, the mother of your English rose, named after the daughter of Oceanus and Tethys the Welsh in your blood, from the land of Cymry, your grandmother who dreams of clotted cream in her tea through the swell of diabetes;

then your habooba Al-Sura, God keep her, with three lines on each cheek, a tally of surviving, the woman who cooled your tea pouring it like the weight of deeds between bowl and cup, until the steam would rise like a ghost. 

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Singapore, 1965. Street scene, Burt Glinn.

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Vincent Van Gogh’s stream of thoughts

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Yes, there is a place / where someone loves you both before / and after they learn what you are.

Neil Hilborn, "Lake", The Future

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“I caressed life with my blind hands. I expected roses beyond the mass of thorns.”

— Kim Sunghui, from Roses and Thorns; The Columbia Anthology of Modern Korean Poetry. Tr. Brother Anthony of Taizé.

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summer is for loneliness and eating fruit and warm rain at night

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Olya Oleinic

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Unknown, Home movie, 1940s

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Charles Rennie Mackintosh

The Little Bay Port Vendres,1927

The Hunterian Museum

more

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champs, rang saint-isidore, hébertville

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“On the days I am not my father I don’t fill the silence with my own irrational rants. I don’t resent the voices of others. I don’t make fun of you to make myself feel better.”

— From On the Days I Am Not My Father by Scott Owens

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Donato Creti