#corbier

[minarachelle]

Corbières, France - 2024

[petaltexturedskies]

My soul is not in a state of grace. I am afraid of the moon's laugh, the moon, with its black crepe. The hour is a tear.

Tristan Corbière, from The Complete Poems

[sitting-on-me-bum]

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‘A classic autumn morning in the vines near the Corbières town of Tuchan, France. I took this photo while walking my dog – that’s his back intruding into the bottom corner of the frame.’

Photograph: Robert Heath

[retrogeographie]

Lezignan-Corbières, la piscine.

[asphaltheritage]

A true love story between one of our founder Olivier, aka @walter_moretti_studio, and his Alfa 2000 GTV he owns since 2007. 15 years of driving all around France, Spain or Italy. Here a picture of it in 2011 during the @tourauto somewhere lost in the Pyrénées mountains🍀 - 📷: @amaurylaparra - #asphaltheritage #alfaromeo #classicalfaromeo #summerroadtrip #canyons #corbieres #classicalfa #2000gtv #bertone #alfaromeogtv #italiandoitbetter #drivetastefully #drivevintage #classiccarsdaily #classiccaroftheday #alfaclassic #classicdriver #lovestory #valentineday (à Pyrénées) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cop5xdyIiW1/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[just-placebo-estate-things]

rising from my hiatus grave to throw a sketch sheet of my boy at you. look at him he's been infesting my mind for the past few months like a hecking prion disease. He has no fics yet but that's because he loooooves to fight me when I write him but at least he's kinda fun to draw

(update about the hiatus while I'm here: still hiatusing a bit, things are still getting sorted with the new additions but I'm definitely in a little more of a comfortable spot than I was before. Just got a few things that I'm still working out)

[tinkerbelldetective]

Victor: fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, *points to Eric and Corbiere* You're cool

[tigerballoons]

La Corbière, Jersey

[dreamydiamond]

@haloraptor

Look at these koi

[skalidris]

noticed with delight a single annotation in my frank o'hara anthology (very few annotations because i read o'hara like a morning newspaper)

that just reads "holy shit"

[kerrycoast]

Archive Quarterly ~ Summer 24

Honouring the indomitable spirit of Indigenous Peoples west of the Rocky Mountains.

Featuring: A special investigation of the 1974 blockade of Highway 12, at Bonaparte, Secwepemc. After Elder James Morgan’s house burned down, and there was no access to funds or building materials to rebuild it, the Chief and dozens of others held down a narrow strip of the main transportation artery between Lillooet and the Interior – to levy a $5-per-traveller toll, raising funds to rebuild…

[mywinepal]

Five French Biodynamic Red Wines From Gérard Bertrand

Five French #Biodynamic Red Wines From @GerardBertrandO #Grenache #Mourvèdre #Syrah #Carignan #Malbec #Languedoc #somm #biodiversity @BCliquorstores @EWineBC

The Gérard Bertrand winery, nestled in the heart of the Languedoc region in southern France, boasts a rich history steeped in tradition and innovation. Established by Gérard Bertrand, a former rugby star, the winery has consistently pushed the boundaries of winemaking excellence. His first vintage was in 1975, following his father and grandfather Paule Bertrand. One notable aspect of Gérard’s…

[quordleona03]

"#being in a sherlock holmes obsession makes this very difficult!!!"

uh-huh

Hello, tumblr user. Before you is a tumblr post asking you to name a female fictional character. You have unlimited time to tag a female character, NOT a male one.

Begin.

[daimonclub]

Halloween death poems

Halloween poems on death and souls Halloween death poems, dead spirits and departed souls with the passed away essence of our ancestors existing around the living by the World of English that is English-culture.com Halloween for the year 2022 is celebrated/observed on Monday, October 31st. What the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead. T. S. Eliot Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness - for then The spirits of the dead, who stood In life before thee, are again In death around thee, and their will Shall overshadow thee; be still. Edgar Allan Poe From “Spirits of the Dead All Souls’ Night You heap the logs and try to fill The little room with words and cheer, But silent feet are on the hill, Across the window veiled eyes peer. The hosts of lovers, young in death, Go seeking down the world to-night, Remembering faces, warmth and breath - And they shall seek till it is light. Then let the white-flaked logs burn low, Lest those who drift before the storm See gladness on our hearth and know There is no flame can make them warm. Hortense King Flexner Petit mort pour rire - Poem by Tristan Corbiere Va vite, léger peigneur de comètes ! Les herbes au vent seront tes cheveux ; De ton œil béant jailliront les feux Follets, prisonniers dans les pauvres têtes… Les fleurs de tombeau qu’on nomme Amourettes Foisonneront plein ton rire terreux… Et les myosotis, ces fleurs d’oubliettes… Ne fais pas le lourd : cercueils de poètes Pour les croque-morts sont de simples jeux, Boîtes à violon qui sonnent le creux… Ils te croiront mort - Les bourgeois sont bêtes Va vite, léger peigneur de comètes ! Tristan Corbiere For Annie Thank Heaven! the crisis, The danger, is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last - And the fever called "Living" Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length - But no matter! - I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead - Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart: - ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness - the nausea - The pitiless pain - Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain - With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain. And oh! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated - the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst: - I have drank of a water That quenches all thirst: - Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground - From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed - And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting, its roses - Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses: For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies - A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies - With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie - Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast - Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm - To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead - And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed (With her love at my breast). That you fancy me dead - That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead:- But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie - It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie - With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. By Edgar Allan Poe Annabel Lee It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love - I and my Annabel Lee - With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me - Yes! - that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we - Of many far wiser than we - And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea - In her tomb by the sounding sea. By Edgar Allan Poe

Halloween poems on death, spirits and souls Halloween Upon that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance; Or for Colean the route is ta’en, Beneath the moon’s pale beams; There, up the cove, to stray and rove, Among the rocks and streams To sport that night. Among the bonny winding banks, Where Doon rins, wimplin’ clear, Where Bruce ance ruled the martial ranks, And shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, country-folks, Together did convene, To burn their nits, and pou their stocks, And haud their Halloween Fu’ blithe that night. The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they’re fine; Their faces blithe, fu’ sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, and warm, and kin’; The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs, Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, and some wi’ gabs, Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’ Whiles fast at night. Then, first and foremost, through the kail, Their stocks maun a’ be sought ance; They steek their een, and graip and wale, For muckle anes and straught anes. Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift, And wander’d through the bow-kail, And pou’t, for want o’ better shift, A runt was like a sow-tail, Sae bow’t that night. Then, staught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar and cry a’ throu’ther; The very wee things, todlin’, rin, Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther; And gif the custoc’s sweet or sour. Wi’ joctelegs they taste them; Syne cozily, aboon the door, Wi cannie care, they’ve placed them To lie that night. The lasses staw frae ‘mang them a’ To pou their stalks of corn: But Rab slips out, and jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn: He grippet Nelly hard and fast; Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses; But her tap-pickle maist was lost, When kitlin’ in the fause-house Wi’ him that night. The auld guidwife’s well-hoordit nits, Are round and round divided, And monie lads’ and lasses’ fates Are there that night decided: Some kindle coothie, side by side, And burn thegither trimly; Some start awa, wi’ saucy pride, And jump out-owre the chimlie Fu’ high that night. Jean slips in twa wi’ tentie ee; Wha ‘twas she wadna tell; But this is Jock, and this is me, She says in to hersel: He bleezed owre her, and she owre him, As they wad never mair part; Till, fuff! he started up the lum, And Jean had e’en a sair heart To see’t that night. Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie; And Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be compared to Willie; Mall’s nit lap out wi’ pridefu’ fling, And her ain fit it brunt it; While Willie lap, and swore by jing, ‘Twas just the way he wanted To be that night. Nell had the fause-house in her min’, She pits hersel and Rob in; In loving bleeze they sweetly join, Till white in ase they’re sobbin’; Nell’s heart was dancin’ at the view, She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t: Rob, stowlins, prie’d her bonny mou’, Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t, Unseen that night. But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; She lea’es them gashin’ at their cracks, And slips out by hersel: She through the yard the nearest taks, And to the kiln goes then, And darklins graipit for the bauks, And in the blue-clue throws then, Right fear’t that night. And aye she win’t, and aye she swat, I wat she made nae jaukin’, Till something held within the pat, Guid Lord! but she was quakin’! But whether ‘was the deil himsel, Or whether ‘twas a bauk-en’, Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She didna wait on talkin’ To spier that night. Wee Jennie to her grannie says, “Will ye go wi’ me, grannie? I’ll eat the apple at the glass I gat frae Uncle Johnnie:" She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap’rin’, She notice’t na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out through that night. “Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face! I daur you try sic sportin’, As seek the foul thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune. Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! Great cause ye hae to fear it; For mony a ane has gotten a fright, And lived and died deleeret On sic a night. “Ae hairst afore the Sherramoor, — I mind’t as weel’s yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I’m sure I wasna past fifteen; The simmer had been cauld and wat, And stuff was unco green; And aye a rantin’ kirn we gat, And just on Halloween It fell that night. “Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen, A clever sturdy fallow: His son gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean, That lived in Achmacalla: He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weel, And he made unco light o’t; But mony a day was by himsel, He was sae sairly frighted That very night.” Then up gat fechtin’ Jamie Fleck, And he swore by his conscience, That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; For it was a’ but nonsense. The auld guidman raught down the pock, And out a hanfu’ gied him; Syne bade him slip frae ‘mang the folk, Some time when nae ane see’d him, And try’t that night. He marches through amang the stacks, Though he was something sturtin; The graip he for a harrow taks. And haurls it at his curpin; And every now and then he says, “Hemp-seed, I saw thee, And her that is to be my lass, Come after me, and draw thee As fast this night.” He whistled up Lord Lennox’ march To keep his courage cheery; Although his hair began to arch, He was say fley’d and eerie: Till presently he hears a squeak, And then a grane and gruntle; He by his shouther gae a keek, And tumbled wi’ a wintle Out-owre that night. He roar’d a horrid murder-shout, In dreadfu’ desperation! And young and auld came runnin’ out To hear the sad narration; He swore ‘twas hilchin Jean M’Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphie, Till, stop! she trotted through them And wha was it but grumphie Asteer that night! Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, To win three wechts o’ naething; But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith in: She gies the herd a pickle nits, And two red-cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tam Kipples That very nicht. She turns the key wi cannie thraw, And owre the threshold ventures; But first on Sawnie gies a ca’ Syne bauldly in she enters: A ratton rattled up the wa’, And she cried, Lord, preserve her! And ran through midden-hole and a’, And pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour, Fu’ fast that night; They hoy’t out Will wi’ sair advice; They hecht him some fine braw ane; It chanced the stack he faddom’d thrice Was timmer-propt for thrawin’; He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, For some black grousome carlin; And loot a winze, and drew a stroke, Till skin in blypes cam haurlin’ Aff’s nieves that night. A wanton widow Leezie was, As canty as a kittlin; But, och! that night amang the shaws, She got a fearfu’ settlin’! She through the whins, and by the cairn, And owre the hill gaed scrievin, Whare three lairds’ lands met at a burn To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it wimpl’t; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl’t; Whyles glitter’d to the nightly rays, Wi’ bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night. Among the brackens, on the brae, Between her and the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey, Gat up and gae a croon: Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool! Near lav’rock-height she jumpit; but mist a fit, and in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi’ a plunge that night. In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies three are ranged, And every time great care is ta’en’, To see them duly changed: Auld Uncle John, wha wedlock joys Sin’ Mar’s year did desire, Because he gat the toom dish thrice, He heaved them on the fire In wrath that night. Wi’ merry sangs, and friendly cracks, I wat they didna weary; And unco tales, and funny jokes, Their sports were cheap and cheery; Till butter’d so’ns, wi’ fragrant lunt, Set a’ their gabs a-steerin’; Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt, They parted aff careerin’ Fu’ blythe that night. Robert Burns, 1759 - 1796 Download the pdf file about Halloween History Other poems on Halloween Here   www.poets.org/poetsorg/halloween-poems If you like Halloween you can also read the following articles: Halloween great and famous quotes Halloween or All Hallows’ Eve Halloween quotes and aphorisms Halloween death poems Read the full article

[piacetto]