"Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink beneath the lake,
The shadows lengthen
In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead;
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
Lost Carcosa."

The King in Yellow, Robert W. Chambers

"that corpse you planted last year in your garden,
has it begun to sprout? will it bloom this year?
or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?"

t.s. eliot, the waste land  (via itchesandtugs)

(Source: beryl-azure, via noraaajane)

"Then I’ll haste to wed a sailor, and send him off to sea,
For a life of independence is the pleasant life for me,
But every now and then I shall like to see his face,
For it always seems to me to beam with manly grace,
With his brow so nobly open, and his dark and kindly eye,
Oh my heart beats fondly towards him whenever he is nigh,
But when he says Goodbye my love, I’m off across the sea
First I cry for his departure, then laugh because I’m free,"

— Nantucket Girls’ Song, commonly attributed to Martha Ford— From the mid-19th century whaling era when sailor husbands alternated between three months at home and three years at sea.

"Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep."

— Albert Goldbarth, from The Sciences Sing A Lullaby (via gothgirlsgettingmoney)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via traversefamilypicnic)

Tags: poetry

(Source: wewhowander, via delcat)

This is just to say

librarianpirate:

I have stolen
the cakes
that were in
the pantry

of which
there were forty
for me to eat.

Forgive me
that’s as many
as four tens
and that’s terrible

-Lex Luthor

(via thegirlwithgoldeyes)

"

Now that the soul has left its throne
Behind your mortal eyes,
And light, and colour and sound are gone
From the body’s palaces :
Still in his wood the blackbird calls,
But there is one too few to hear :
And one too few to watch the trout
Swim through the music of the weir.

And once I dreamt that you were gone,
As dust upon the wave ;
Or, as a drop in some deep well,
That none could sort or save.
But falling low between the stars,
So soon as I had such a fear,
At dusk and dawn a whisper came :
“The dead are near: the dead are near.”

"

The Fallen Poet, Herbert Ashley Asquith

From The Volunteer and Other Poems. 1917.

(via lord-kitschener)

(via cryingalonewithfrankenstein)

Tags: poetry

"I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages."

b.e.fitzgerald (Art is a Facebook status about your winter break.)

This.

(via byrdiegrey)

(via saphire-dance)

r0wdyruff:

help me, i am trapped

in a haiku factory

save me, before they

(Source: litlpup, via nathantdean)

Tags: poetry haiku

lilygirlduh:

witch wife by edna st vincent millay

lilygirlduh:

witch wife by edna st vincent millay

(via traversefamilypicnic)

Tags: poetry