#river poem

[edinburgh-by-the-sea]

the leaves are falling in the stream, the river flows away

[atomic-chronoscaph]

Dante's Inferno - art by Gustave Doré (1861)

[perfectfeelings]

Listen. I wish I could tell you it gets better. But, it doesn’t get better. You get better.

Joan Rivers

[thefamiliarstrangers100]

“The war will end. The leaders will shake hands. The old woman will keep waiting for her martyred son. That girl will wait for her beloved husband. And those children will wait for their heroic father. I don’t know who sold our homeland. But I saw who paid the price.”

— Mahmoud Darwish; Palestinian poet.

[resqectable]

Listen. I wish I could tell you it gets better. But, it doesn’t get better. You get better.

Joan Rivers

[flowingtune]

[its-kapi-wara]

"You're so quiet today darling, what's on your mind?"

I was busy thinking about the manga/anime male characters whose physical appearance were inspired by real people...

[horreurscopes]

i like my body when it is with your body.

[thoughtkick]

Listen. I wish I could tell you it gets better. But, it doesn’t get better. You get better.

Joan Rivers

[sprachgitter]

Dear friends, No there but here: Voices for Falasteen is an online poetry and music fundraiser for Wisam’s family in Deir Al Balah. Featuring poems of resistance by Summer Farah, Natasha Oladokun, Yasmeen Barakat, Alycia Pirmohamed, Patrycja Humienik, Rodlyn Mae Banting, and Joshua Thermidor, as well as songs from Nemat Battah, this event is very close to my heart. I will also share some poems at this event. Please join us online on Sunday, 3 November 2024 at 9 AM Pacific Time / 11AM Central Time ❤️‍🔥 We want to build this movement with you. To register, please visit this link, donate to Wisam and fill out the registration form. We suggest a minimum donation of €20. I am so immensely grateful for your time and generosity ❤️‍🔥 toward a free Falasteen within our lifetime, Amogha ❤️‍🔥

[moonlayl]

And May The Screams You Ignored Haunt You Every Night:

This was a choice.

A choice of complacency.

A choice to ignore.

A choice to be willfully ignorant.

We funded it.

We cheered for it in our actions, or lack thereof.

And if there is anyone to blame, it is us.

It is our fault for not taking our power back.

It is our fault for choosing to value material items over the welfare of our fellow humans.

It is our fault for not demanding more.

“Why only Palestine?”, they ask.

“Why don’t you focus on problems in your own backyard?”

Palestine is our backyard.

Palestine is the litmus test, for if we didn’t fund the fascism in Palestine, we ourselves would be free.

If we didn’t find Israel, we ourselves would have basic human rights.

If we didn’t elect the corrupt, the world would not be the military industrial complex’s playground.

If we reclaimed our power, our elected officials would work for us, and not their next lobby check.

We chose this.

We choose it with every dollar we spend, every piece of media we consume, and with every scream we ignore.

[soracities]

Marina Tsvetaeva, from Epitaph, Selected Poems (trans. Elaine Feinstein, with Angela Livingstone) [ID'd]

[walmart-miku]

This is the most yoohankim coded poem I have ever read holy shit

[thehopefulquotes]

Listen. I wish I could tell you it gets better. But, it doesn’t get better. You get better.

Joan Rivers

[haridraws]

Inversnaid - Gerard Manley Hopkins

a patron told me a drawing I did reminded them of this poem (enormous compliment) and I love it immensely, so wanted to post it with a river drawing collection.

These drawings were made in various parts of Scotland, climbing down to get closer to the bank and painted with river water. None of them are the exact stream at Inversnaid this poem is about, but none are very far away - the middle is one that eventually leads into the same loch.

The UK is one of the most nature-depleted countries in the world. Awareness and efforts to rewild and preserve pockets of ancient woodland like these are growing here, if slowly. Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

[dabiconcordia]

Willow poem It is a willow when summer is over, a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson. The leaves cling and grow paler, swing and grow paler over the swirling waters of the river as if loth to let go, they are so cool, so drunk with the swirl of the wind and of the river – oblivious to winter, By William Carlos Williams