I like to watch this over and over again to get pumped about writing my dissertation.

I like to watch this over and over again while crying uncontrollably 

(Source: middleandoff)

I thought I’d die, but I didn’t, and when I didn’t, I said to myself, is that all there is to love?

Hart Crane, Voyages

Above the fresh ruffles of the surf
Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand.
They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks,
And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed
Gaily digging and scattering.

And in answer to their treble interjections
The sun beats lightning on the waves,
The waves fold thunder on the sand;
And could they hear me I would tell them:

O brilliant kids, frisk with your dog,
Fondle your shells and sticks, bleached
By time and the elements; but there is a line
You must not cross nor every trust beyond it
Spry cordage of your bodies to caresses
Too lichen-faithful from too wide a breast.
The bottom of the sea is cruel.

For poetry is- let us admit it- a minor art in America, like pottery. Our poetry becomes more and more ceramic as the decades roll by…Perhaps we should teach our children that once upon a time there was a thing called poetry, that it was very beautiful, and that people tried to bring it to our shores in boats but it died. And a few people couldn’t live without it, so they went back to the Old World to see it. And others built greenhouses called English Departments, where they kept it breathing. And they watered it with the most expensive electricity, but it didn’t like it here and died anyhow. And some fractious students lost their tempers and began to smash the greenhouse windows. And then everybody started reading prose.
— Karl Shapiro, “Is Poetry an American Art?”

teacuptorus:

thesoviette:

Grimes “Genesis” video synched to the video for Lana Del Rey “Ride”

UNCANNY

yay!

Louise Gluck, “First Memory”

Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
to revenge myself
against my father, not
for what he was -
for what I was: from the beginning of time,
in childhood, I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved.

The fact that he does not tell me the truth all the time makes me not sure of his truth at certain times, and then I work to figure out for myself if what he is telling me is the truth or not, and sometimes I can figure out that it’s not the truth and sometimes I don’t know and never know, and sometimes just because he says it to me over and over again I am convinced it is the truth because I don’t believe he would repeat a lie so often. Maybe the truth does not matter, but I want to know it if only so that I can come to some conclusions about some questions as: whether he is angry at me or not; if he is, then how angry; whether he still loves her or not; if he does, then how much; whether he loves me or not; how much; how capable he is of deceiving me in the act and after the act in the telling.
from Lydia Davis, “Story”
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, / Had a bad cold, nevertheless / Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, / With a wicked pack of cards.
— T.S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”