once tamed

(Source: crunchier, via summerbreeze96)

Believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

(via thesensualstarfish)

I have been and still am a seeker,
but have ceased to question stars and books;
I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me.
Hermann Hesse (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

(Source: dboodoofortune, via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living. F. Scott Fitzgerald (via observando)

(via maudelynn)


Our coffee cups. And birds. And the green trees
with blue shadows. And the sun leaping from
one wall to another like a gazelle…
and the water in clouds with endless shapes
in what is left to us of sky,
and other things of postponed memory
indicate this morning is strong and beautiful,
and that we are eternity’s guests

—Mahmoud Darwish, from “A State of Siege” (tr. by Fady Joudah), in The Butterfly’s Burden. Copper Canyon Press, 2006


You wound a ball of twine around my eyes
then pinned the end between my fingers.
You gowned me in white tissue
like a hothouse nectarine.
The furtive door at last unbarred, I was
amazed at the garden’s suggestion
throating from vining flower-walls
in breaths that quickened with mine.
How long I lingered beneath
sun awnings and a stone-and-mortar sky,
only you know. For when I found the throneroom
festooned with pelvis bones,
the twin-fingered god on whose nether lip I hung
a kiss, a crape-gartered barb,
was you-you the pursued, yours
the bull’s head draped with fragrant lash-black hair.

Peter Kline

Thank you, fluttering-slips

“Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with the martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it.”

Kim Addonizio, For Desire