#symbolist poetry

[exhalereleased]

Over Gerard de Neval in Aurelie, from The Symbolist Movement in Literature by Arthur Symons

[papillondusublime]

Au-dessus des étangs, au-dessus des vallées, Des montagnes, des bois, des nuages, des mers, Par delà le soleil, par delà les éthers, Par delà les confins des sphères étoilées,

Mon esprit, tu te meus avec agilité, Et, comme un bon nageur qui se pâme dans l’onde, Tu sillonnes gaiement l’immensité profonde Avec une indicible et mâle volupté.

Envole-toi bien loin de ces miasmes morbides ; Va te purifier dans l’air supérieur, Et bois, comme une pure et divine liqueur, Le feu clair qui remplit les espaces limpides.

Derrière les ennuis et les vastes chagrins Qui chargent de leur poids l’existence brumeuse, Heureux celui qui peut d’une aile vigoureuse S’élancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins ;

Celui dont les pensers, comme des alouettes, Vers les cieux le matin prennent un libre essor, – Qui plane sur la vie, et comprend sans effort Le langage des fleurs et des choses muettes !

-"Élévation", Charles Baudelaire

[gossamerangell]

“we’re born as blank canvases and it’s our parents job to make us beautiful and complete paintings. you have splashed angry, bright red paint over what could have been a beautiful portrait. you didn’t keep your brushstrokes light and colorful, you threw your brushes to the ground and splashed that angry red all over me. try as i might, and i really do try, i’ll never fully be able to cover that red paint. it’ll always be lingering, the undertones to a self portrait. the subtext of an autobiography.”

-from my letter to my mother <3

[mello0cat]

"Fluttering heart"

"I feel as though my heart is like a fluttering butterfly confined in the cage that is my mind"

I hope to one day set it free,

In a garden full of rose maree

and a willow tree

Oh my dear!

Don't catch it, please!

The wings are quite frail and weak,

Beware it's clutches, they're strong, not meak!

[kristopherbiernat]

06/15/2024 (Frazier Avenue, cats & clouds, and zen beginnings)

[tonreihe]

Rowan Williams, The Edge of Words: God and the Habits of Language

[psycheapuleius]

Jules Laforgue (1880-1887). A Franco-Uruguayan poet, often referred to as a Symbolist poet. Critics and commentators have also pointed to Impressionism as a direct influence and his poetry has been called "part-symbolist, part-impressionist.”

Legende

Great loves, where are they now?

They were simple in any case:

Lips that needed no introduction,

Though the song is dead and gone

Still eager for the chase.

But the eyes of a beautiful, well cloistered soul.

Finally, she is taking me into her confidence.

It is making me suffer more than she can guess.

— translated by Louis Simpson.

[luneillusoire]

doodle dump 🍄

[yasantiekspresi]

Damaged Roots

I was brought forth with an open wound,

Embroidered within me;

A past that would never truly heal.

Bequeathed from a generation to another,

On goes a scar with us as a host;

We shall never truly recover.

The Wounded Angel - Hugo Simberg Poem By : yasantiekspresi PAINTINGS ARE NOT MINE

[likakvitsiani]

"Not Afraid of the Wind, Not Afraid of the Rain"

28X20.5cm, ink and pen on paper.

[mariamnioradze]

ETHEREAL CHECKMATE

56x76cm, ink on paper Fabriano june 2022 © Mariam Nioradze

[exhalereleased]

The Symbolist Movement in Literature by Arthur Symons

[papillondusublime]

Les générations passent sous le soleil, Sans regarder le ciel trop haut pour leurs paupières, Bétail indifférent, végétant aux litières Des jours de chair épaisse et d’opaque sommeil. L’or seul, l’or luit partout, dieu sordide et vermeil. Et les peuples obscurs, qu’effare la lumière, Roulent à l’océan sans fond de la matière, Larves mornes qui n’ont jamais connu l’éveil. Alors, pour éclairer la nuit sombre des temps, De loin en loin des cœurs, de beaux cœurs palpitants Brûlent, torches de foi, d’amour, ou de génie. Et l’histoire, stérile amas d’écroulements, N’est qu’un désert peuplé de ces grands flamboiements Par qui l’humanité s’illumine — infinie. -Poème: "Les Bûchers", Albert Samain -Image: "Hérétique sur le bûcher", René Leverd

[canterai]

Edward Burne Jones, The legend of briar rose (1885)

[jakobmilch]

Up close view of Arthur Rimbaud in Henri Fantin-Latour’s painting By The Table (1872 when Arthur was 17 but turning 18 that year)

[unravelingwires]

Sutures and Flower Petals

I’ve fallen in love with the lines on my hands. I’m enamored with the way they spill and twist, wrapping around my wrists and curling into my palms.

The love, that’s easy. I’ve never had a reason not to love. It’s the caring that matters, but that part’s—tricky.

The lines on my hands aren’t bends, they’re seams. It’s a rare piece of clothing that’s made from one piece. There’s this idea that tears come from outside sources and are held by the lucky few. There’s this idea…

My mother’s best work isn’t made from nails and hair. She can craft with them, but doesn’t love them enough to focus. Her early lessons were all of stolen time and smudged graphite. Of the hair, the nails, chapstick and clips and bright, incongruous colors, my mother’s first lesson was how to sew. She wanted to be a surgeon, once. It’s easy to imagine her with a scalpel, a needle, her hair pinned up and blood on her gloved hands.

Sometimes, when I breathe, I can feel something blooming inside of me. It wraps around my ribs, my lungs, presses against my skin. The seams stretch and widen, but they don’t snap, not anymore. Not yet. They’re brilliant, gaping and straining, criss-crossed with bright thread—yellow and purple, for my sister, white and gold, for my mother, brown and green, for me. I don’t paint over the seams, like you’re supposed to: hair and nails, it’s all exhausting. I know the rules, but what’s the point?

Isn’t it lovely? People are not clay or skin or broken glass. We may not be molded, but we can embroider. We can break and remake. Isn’t it lovely, that we may sew and sew and snap?