yicitys - Tumblr blog

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tragic overliving as being unable to escape the story you’re in, from emily wilson’s mocked with death

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Past Lives, Future Bodies, K-Ming Chang

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I Know Your Kind, William Brewer

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against death by Noor Hindi

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nicole homer, underbelly

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{Hannah Green, from "Are you still hungry, Mother?"/ Unknown/Sam Gordon, "A Mother's Hate"/ Ella Wilson/ Joan Tierney/ Ella Wilson/ Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous/ Unknown/ Nayyirah Waheed/ Sharon Olds, “Holding To A Wall, Treading Saltwater”/ John Green, Turtles All the Way Down/ Safia Elhillo, "an inheritance," published in Narrative Northeast/ Annie Ernaux, from I Remain in Darkness/ Poplar Street by Chen Chen/ Unknown/ Tumblr User: @inkskinned/ Elena Poniatowska, from "La Flor de Lis," published c. January 2011/ Kyung-Sook Shin, Please Look After Mom}

[yicitys]

Emily Dickinson (1871)

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The Green Ray (1986) dir. Éric Rohmer cinematography by Sophie Maintigneux

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James Wright, from “A Winter Daybreak above Vence”

[text ID: Look, the sea has not fallen and broken / Our heads. How can I feel so warm / Here in the dead center of January? I can / Scarcely believe it, and yet I have to, this is / The only life I have. I get up from the stone. / My body mumbles something unseemly / And follows me. Now we are all sitting here strangely / On top of the sunlight.]

[yicitys]

We were, once again, Orpheus's incompetence. We found everything we wanted in the past but couldn't bring it with us. We made the same mistake we always do. We were okay anyhow so we did not become wiser. Instead, we were made holy by the persistent foghorn. Or the foghorn's persistence, we weren't sure which. We were made beautiful by the act of looking each other in the mirror and asking if we were beautiful. We were made hopeful by grass growing clandestine on the roof. We were alive, most the time. We were the lingering compromise living made of the day. We chased groundhogs out of the barn and for this we apologized profusely to each other but not, for some reason, to the groundhogs. This much I loved, like the tenderness of asking for a favor without saying what it is first.

Robert Wood Lynn, "From the List of My Fears"

[yicitys]

Who will come into my kitchen and be hungry for me?

you say you don’t want a boyfriend, but you know that’s not true - Charlotte Green/the voice - Anaïs Nin/the unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath - Sylvia Plath/tolerate it - Taylor Swift/the unabridged journals of sylvia plath - Sylvia Plath/the unexpurgated diary of anaïs nin - Anaïs Nin/ @treebloods/@lovebeing-a-girl/@ sanwtch on instagram/ @onlyanothermundane/@tullispink/I am an observer, but not by choice - @fatimaamerbilal/the prophecy - Taylor Swift/criss cross - Lynne Rae Perkins/Vladimir Mayakovsky in a letter to Lili Brik/what I could never confess without some bravado - Emily Palermo/little weirds - Jenny Slate

requested here

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Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence // Ada Limón, "Lies About Sea Creatures" // Sherita Walker // @itsbaditsgood // Richard Siken, "I Had a Dream About You" // Richard Siken, "You Are Jeff" (8) // Richard Siken, "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out" // @_demarmol on Instagram // Anne Sexton, "The Touch"

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Theodore Roethke, from "Love's Progress", The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke [ID'd]

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“Distrust everything, if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven’t they carried you everywhere, up to now?”

— Galway Kinnell, from “Wait”

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Writing a poem is not so very different from digging a hole. It is work. You try to learn what you can from other holes and the people who dug before you. The difficulty comes from people who do not dig or spend time in holes thinking that the holes ought not to be so wet, or dark, or full of worms. “Why is your hole not lined with light?” Sir, it is a hole.

Heather Christle, The Crying Book

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“You have to really be broken in order to be a poet. It’s a very bad thing to tell a young person, but it’s true. Poetry comes out of all the places where you break.”

— Alice Notley, from an interview conducted c. October 2015 (via violentwavesofemotion)

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Gregory Orr, Concerning The Book That Is The Body Of The Beloved