(Via)
{Anne Carson, Red Doc>}
(This shadow sliced through my pages in the park today.)
Living Planet - The Four Seasons of the Bush (2013)
Via likeafieldmouse
February almost March bites the cold.
Take down a book, wind pours in…{Lorine Niedecker}
(Via mythologyofblue)
And because distance, when it snows, leads no longer out into the world but rather within…
{Walter Benjamin, Berlin Childhood Around 1900}
"Oh that the lyric mood of the winter — its intense spiritual exaltation — is over. The thaw has set in."
January 26th, 1940
{Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary, edited by Leonard Woolf.}
"to confuse snow with the stars"
Denise Levertov, from “Too Easy: to Write of Miracles”, (via sketchofthepast)
Whacher,
Emily’s habitual spelling of this word,
has caused confusion.
For example
in the first line of the poem printed Tell me, whether, is it winter?
in the Shakespeare Head edition.
But whacher is what she wrote.
Whacher is what she was.
She whached God and humans and moor wind and open night.
She whached eyes, stars, inside, outside, actual weather.
She whached the bars of time, which broke.
She whached the poor core of the world,
wide open.
To be a whacher is not a choice.
There is nowhere to get away from it,
no ledge to climb up to—like a swimmer
who walks out of the water at sunset
shaking the drops off, it just flies open.
To be a whacher is not in itself sad or happy,
although she uses these words in her verse
as she uses the emotions of sexual union in her novel,
grazing with euphemism the work of whaching.
But it has no name.
It is transparent.
Sometimes she calls it Thou.
{Anne Carson, The Glass Essay}
Tim Hyde, Video panorama of New York City during which the Camera Fails to Distinguish the City from a Snowstorm, 2006-2007
(Via hypocrite-lecteur)
Henry David Thoreau, from Winter: from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau
(Via mythologyofblue)
Baudelaire declares that dreamers like a severe winter…a reminder of winter strengthens the happiness of inhabiting.
{Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space}
{Image: Silence via therestisbullshit}
(Source: reliablememory)
"(does it rain there,
the small rain in the streets of home?
Do you sleep sound or hear the dripping eaves?)"
{Denise Levertov, from Solace, 1947} (via sketchofthepast)
When autumn comes, without too much regret he abandons the notes that took up so much of his time and energy during the last few days of sunshine. Now the fever has passed he realizes that what he thought was the prelude to a wonderful new period of his life was simply summer drawing to a close, just as the “meaning” of this kingdom existed in a few flashes of inspiration — the whirlwind of landmarks, signs and possibilities that got up inside his head, and which will allow him to stay awake, alert, even with the coming of winter probably looming again behind the “eternal” dispassion of the thistles.
{Petr Kral, In Search of the Essence of Place}
