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o wayward star

"She did not speak for she had no speech
She was a mermaid who had lost her way
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears
Her eyes were the color of distant love."

Sometimes in the cold wintry dusk, the city looks positively Florentine. You drive west on Geary Parkway toward a sky all Dante-dramatic, and a false antiquity guilds the twin spires of St. Ignatius; they seem as real and as far away as the Renaissance. Dark mystery on Lone Mountain: the school and its innocent tower become a castle on a hill. A thousand lights flicker against the black mass of Mount Parnassus, beacons glow on and off in a nervous pattern, and the far-off rumble of a ship’s horn makes you realize the sea is ceaselessly near, surf pounding in rhythm to the beat of the old but not-so-old city…

—Herb Caen (via thecitybythebay)

"There are still souls for whom love is the contact of two poetries, the fusion of two reveries… To tell a love, one must write… Love is never finished expressing itself, and it expresses itself better the more poetically it is dreamed. The reveries of two solitary souls prepare the sweetness of loving."


The Queen of the Night

Wicked Diva in Mozart’s Magic Flute opera

1. Karl Friedrich Schinkel (German, 1781-1841)

2. Simon Quaglio (German, 1795-1878)

3. Erté (Russian-French, 1892-1990)


(via sparrowandswan)

The words you speak become the house you live in.

—Hafiz (via lazyyogi)

(Source: lazyyogi, via portermoto)

crying at the poetry reading, by rob walker


there is a poet crying. she read her poem earlier, 
now it is not her turn to read. it’s her time to cry. 

perhaps the cheap cardboard wine loosened a sad memory, 
sent it spilling onto the floor, a moan leaking from her eyes. 

the other poets ignore her, embarrassed. dictionaries with hair. 
bower birds of words. after all, she’s had her turn. 

besides, they prefer their emotions to be distilled to an essence, 
boiled away to leave a black residue on white paper. 


A soul is something we have every now and then.
Nobody has one all the time
or forever.

Day after day,
year after year,
can go by without one.

Only sometimes in rapture
or in the fears of childhood
it nests a little longer.
Only sometimes in the wonderment
that we are old.

It rarely…

“They’d never been lovers, of course, not in the physical sense. But they’d been lovers as most of us manage, loving through expressions and gestures and the palm set softly upon the bruise at the necessary moment. Lovers by inclination rather than by lust. Lovers, that is, by love.”

— Gregory Maguire, Out of Oz

I defend
Not my voice, but my silence.

—Anna Akhmatova, trans. M. M. Kralin, quoted by Judith Hemschemeyer, in The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova  (via volaream)

Nº. 1 of  106