"… It is unbearably painful
For the soul to love silently."
Anna Akhmatova, from The Complete Poems
(translated by Judith Hemschemeyer)
"This is my simple religion. No need for temples. No need for complicated philosophy. Your own mind, your own heart is the temple. Your philosophy is simple kindness.”
― Dalai Lama XIV"
"Forgiveness is like faith. You have to keep reviving it."
Mason Cooley (via luxet-veritas
"The body remembers the wound
Lauren Kizi-Ann Alleyne, On the Illusion of Closure
despite the tightly threaded stitches;
the arm cut off for its own good,
it tries to wave.
The brain recalls with ease, the scent
of a married ex-lover’s shirt; the exact
shape of the deceased uncle’s nose:
O hook of memory!
Tell me the house doesn’t dream
of the old walls where mice nested
in the shed hair of its owners. Tell me the earth
each disappeared footpath and forest,
every city razed to dust. Burned out stars
give the light we dream by. What I’m saying
is my heart,
that stubborn muscle, has learned
the wild cadences of your music; I’m saying
even when your echo fades away
it dances on."
"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things."
― Mary Oliver (via journalofanobody
"This weekend there was more than one occassion i wish i was home on the phone with you."
"Anything worth doing is never easy."
something they say
"Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem."
Janet Fitch, White Oleander