Through the laurel’s branches
I saw two dark doves.
One was the sun,
the other the moon.
Little neighbors, I called,
where is my tomb?
In my tail, said the sun.
In my throat, said the moon.
And I who was walking
with the earth at my waist,
saw two snowy eagles
and a naked girl.
The one was the other
and the girl was neither.
Little eagles, I called,
where is my tomb?
In my tail, said the sun.
In my throat, said the moon.
Through the laurel’s branches
I saw two naked doves.
The one was the other
and both of them were neither.

Qasida of the Dark Doves // Federico Garcia Lorca
View quote
  • 1 week ago

transient, adj.

In school, the year was marker. Fifth grade. Senior year or high school. Sophomore year of college. Then after, the jobs were the marker. That office. This desk. But now that school is over and I’ve been working at the same place in the same office at the same desk for longer than I can truly believe, I realize: You have become the marker. This is your era. And it’s only if it goes on and on that I will have to look for others way to identify the time.

From The Lover’s Dictionary // David Levithan

View text
  • 1 week ago
View photo
  • 1 week ago

I dreamt…
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
where making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures…

Antonio Machado in “Last Night as I was Sleeping.”
View quote
  • 4 months ago
  • 1
View photo
  • 4 months ago
View photo
  • 5 months ago
View photo
  • 5 months ago

New Moon (Jim Harrison)

Why does the new moon give anyone hope?

Nevertheless it does and always has for me

and likely does for that Mexican poet with no pesos,

maybe a couple of tortillas, chewing them while sitting

on a smooth rock beside a creek in the Sierra Madres

seeing the new moon tilted delicately away from Venus,

the faint silver light, the ever-so-small sliver

of white enamel rippling in the creek, the same moon,

he thinks, that soothed the Virgin in her great doubt

over the swollen belly beneath her breasts.

The fatherless son had two new moons in his forty days

in the wilderness, the second one telling him it was time

to become God and enter the beast of history.

This poet, though, ignores the sacraments of destiny

and only wants a poem to sing the liquid gift of night.

View text
  • 5 months ago
View photo
  • 5 months ago
View photo
  • 5 months ago
View audio
  • 5 months ago

Commit to it, and be freed (words of wisdom directed to myself + every other human on earth).

“Until you are committed there is always a chance to change your mind. Some of you are masters at keeping everything just in that place of ‘not quite there.’ This is due to the fear of being trapped or the fear of failing once committed. What is actually true is that there is great freedom once you commit to something. Commitment allows you to release the ambivalence and resistance that takes so much emotional and psychological energy, and it gives the universe something to work with. Commitments are rewarded, ambivalence is not.
There is a part of commitment that supports the cycle of completion. Once you have released your energy behind something you have committed to, it is on a trajectory towards a goal. You need to give this energy a chance to land where it is destined. If you keep yanking it back, you will end up with many incomplete actions and lots of loose ends.”
View text
  • 6 months ago
View photo
  • 6 months ago

Paco de Lucia - the great Spanish Flamenco Guitarist.  This sparks and ignites in all the right ways. #flamenco #cantejondo 

View video
  • 6 months ago
  • 32

First Body (Mark Conway)

May and the green trees rage,
White sap burned up
into leaves. Turn
and beneath the branches see
the actual air
moving, hesitant, green.
This is when the soul knows
it has a body,
by wanting
to leave it.


In the morning, bowed
under blue rain, geese beat
their heavy way back
to the city-state
of mud. Rising, the wings groan,
trying to fly away
from the body.


Winter
was hard, the cold broke
weak and strong, together. Stay
and watch the robins scream
over scattered barley.


This is how we came to
love this life
by wanting
the next.

View text
  • 6 months ago
x