#poetry psyche

[gnawgag]

it’s their’s to burn

sharing a cigarette with joan of arc - dante émile ( @orpheuslament ) // photography by brendon burton

[the-evil-clergyman]

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, to let the warm love in!, from Ode to Psyche for John Keats' Poems by Robert Anning Bell (1897)

[dirafames]

[betaruga]

Hey Arnold 2024 Shortaki Week! Day 3- "Trapped" lyrics by genesis

[stillprettyunoriginal]

MERRY NEVERMORE CHRISTMAS!!!!!!! (Or Happy Nevermore Holidays)

im like beaming. Anyway this is for @taffyqake I hope you enjoy!!! The first one is Lenore and Theo, from Lenore’s perspective, and the second is Prospero and Annabel from Prospero’s pov. Hope poetry is alright!!!!

thank you so much Morgue for organizing everythinggggg you’re brilliant and our hero,,,,

[shitty-proendo-blackout-posts]

i see.....

[cxndiedvi0lets]

❝ The introverted intuitive has, in a way, a very difficult life, although one of the most interesting lives. ❞

— Carl Jung

[offiziell-provokantearroganz]

[milk-or-vodka]

Bride of Chucky (1998) dir. Ronny Yu | "I Bet on Losing Dogs" - Mitsky | "On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous" - Ocean Vuong | The Kiss of Life - Rocco Morabito | "Bring Me to Life" - Evanescence | Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss - Antonio Canova | "Butterfly Lovers and Other Venus-Neptune Tales of Woe" - Glenn Perry | "Heavy In Your Arms" - Florence + the Machine

[trans-axolotl]

Image description: [Screenshots of pages from Brilliant Imperfection by Eli Clare. Text reads:

Your Suicide Haunts me.

Bear, it’s been over a decade since you killed yourself, and still I want to howl. I feel anguish and rage rattling down at the bottom of my lungs, pressing against my rib cage. If ever my howling erupts, I will take it to schoolyards and churches, classrooms and prisons, homes where physical and sexual violence lurk as common as mealtime. I know many of us need to wail. Together we could shatter windows, bring bullies and perpetrators to their knees, stop shame in its tracks.

Once a week, maybe once a month, I learn of another suicide. They’re friends of friends, writers and dancers who have bolstered me, activists I’ve sat in meetings with, kids from the high school down the road, coworkers and acquaintances, news stories and Facebook posts. They’re queer, trans, disabled, chronically ill, youth, people of color, poor, survivors of abuse and violence, homeless. They’re too many to count.

Bear, will you call their names with me? It’s become a queer ritual, this calling of the names—all those dead of AIDS and breast cancer, car accidents and suicide, hate violence and shame, overdoses and hearts that just stop beating. The names always begin wave upon wave, names filling conference halls, church basements, city parks. Voices call one after another, overlapping, clustering, then coming apart, a great flock of songbirds, gathering to fly south, wheeling and diving—this cloud of remembrance. Then quiet. I think we’re done, only to have another voice call, then two, then twenty. We fill the air for thirty minutes, an hour, a great flock of names. Tonight, will you sit with me? Because, Bear, I can’t sleep.

I remember your smile, your kindness, your compassionate and fierce politics. I remember our long e-mail conversations about being disabled and trans. I remember a brilliant speech you gave at True Spirit, a trans gathering in Washington, DC. I remember you telling me about how you’d disappear for months at a time when your life became grim, how you’d do anything not to go to a psych hospital again. I remember your handsome Black queer trans disabled working-class self. And then, you were gone.

The details of your death haunt me. You had checked yourself in. You were on suicide watch. I imagine your desperation and suffering. I know racism, transphobia, classism colluded. The nurses and aides didn’t follow their own protocols, not bothering to check on you every fifteen minutes. You were alive and sleeping at 5:00 a.m. and dead at 7:00 a.m.; at least that’s what their records say. Did despair clog your throat, panic coil in your intestines? In those last moments, what lingered on your tongue? I know about your death as fleetingly as your life.

Bear, I’d do almost anything to have you alive here and now, anything to stave off your death. But what did you need then? Drugs that worked? A shrink who listened and was willing to negotiate the terms of your confinement with you? A stronger support system? An end to shame and secrecy? As suffering and injustice twisted together through your body-mind, what did you need?

I could almost embrace cure without ambivalence if it would have sustained your life. But what do I know? Maybe your demons, the roller coaster of your emotional and spiritual self, were so much part of you that cure would have made no sense. You wrote not long before your death, “In a world that separates gender, I have found the ability to balance the blending of supposed opposites. In a world that demonizes non-conformity, I have found the purest spiritual expression in celebrating my otherness.”

Yes, Bear. I know that truth. Your otherness was a beautiful braid— your hard-earned trans manhood looping into your Black self, wrapped in working-class smarts and resilience, woven into disability, threaded with queerness. I saw you last in an elevator at True Spirit. You told me that you were spending the weekend hanging out with trans men of color. I can still see your gleeful smile, sparkling eyes.

Friend, what would have made your life possible with all its aches and sorrows? I ask as someone who has gripped the sheer cliff face of suicide more than once. Calling the names exhausts me. Your death exhausts me. The threat, reality, fact of suicide exhausts me. Its arrival on the back of shame and isolation exhausts me. Bear, will you come sit beside me tonight? I’m too exhausted to sleep.]

From Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure by Eli Clare, pages 63-64.

This passage has stuck with me since I first read it and I find myself returning over and over, especially in the times I want to be gentle to my grief.

Thought I'd share it with you all right now <3

[mournfulroses]

Delmore Schwartz, from Gods & Mortals: Modern Poems on Classics; "Psyche Pleads with Cupid,"

[boof-chamber]

Luigi has schizophrenia

the orcas have excited delirium

the submersible had depression

the ocean has borderline personality disorder

[dirafames]

[gayasspoetry]

youth

I've spent most of my young years

in mental hospitals

getting called crazy for who I was

and treated for an invisible killer

that wears the name of depression

with too much pride for an illness.

I spent most my days

writing songs of heartbreak,

illness and sorrow

and missing everyone

I used to know

when I was but a little girl.

I never had that youthful innocence

but hospital nights instead

lying awake on sterile-white beds,

taking bitter medication

for an equally bitter sorrow

that's got a hold on me since early days.

I experienced anger

beyond human comprehension

for I never got to live

more than a summer of

the teenage dream that

everyone kept talking about.

but even that summer was

just the calm before the storm

before everything went downhill

with the beginning of September

when autumn crawled above the city

and sorrow crawled into my heart.

I hate the way I turned out

but it cannot be all that

life has planned out for me

because they say

if it doesn't end happily

than it's not the end yet.

so I promised you to heal

because you were right when you said

you would have no-one

to kiss goodnight

if I was not in your life anymore

or if I was gone forever.

[psyche-tips-the-candle]

It was always going to end this way –

Just the way it started –

Just you, alone, in your bedroom.

Staring at that closed door.

It was never going to be different –

Not noticeably different from before.

Not any better, really, not any worse.

Just you, the lamp, the door.

[daincrediblegg]

I'll be honest the terror season 2 would only be banger if we got a complete sophia cracroft unacceptance arc