huddle of walruses
(via - New York Tales… - Flash Art)
(via - New York Tales… - Flash Art)
(via Observations on the Ground | New Writing | Granta Magazine)
(via Kristian Hans Riise’s Photographs of Fjord Life in Norway : The New Yorker)
Ultimately I believe it is of vital importance for the writer to cultivate a willingness to engage with, and be vulnerable to, the day’s ordinary charms and heartaches.
Daytime Begins with a Line by Anna Akhmatova

The round, hanging lanterns,
lit faces in a window of the Marble Palace
Catherine the Great built for a lover,
with the Field of Mars below,
snow falling inside two minds.
One translated Babylonian folktales
so the other could stand in line early morning
for bread at the House of Scholars.
A touch of dawn was again nightfall,
their room furnished with scattered papers,
rare books, a couch with springs poking out,
a bookcase, a floral pitcher, a china cabinet,
a naked light bulb dangling over a table.
Did the two poets learn it took more
to sing & reflect the burning icy stars
of poetry where privilege & squalor
lived beneath the same ornate ceiling?
Did they tiptoe from the wintery dusk
of the servants’ wing, follow the pseudo-
Gothic stairs up to the forbidden aromas
of Turkish tobacco, sugar, & exotic teas?
Sometimes, they kept themselves warm
with talk of the empress’s love of horses
as they galloped another century. Then,
sketches of their time at the Stray Dog
lit the air around those neoclassic nights,
& maybe they also spoke about “Venice
rotting with gold” near the Arctic Circle,
& anger almost kept them warm on days
they bent over pages of snow-blindness
where tears brought them to laughter.

—Yusef Komunyakaa

Ten drawings of plants by Ellsworth Kelly
lucybiederman:

Brenda Hillman

One of the secret doors of the Stift Admont library, Austria.

One of the secret doors of the Stift Admont library, Austria.

The Piercing

Small piercing as if in an earlobe

your leaving caused. Air is filling it now, time fills it

the view through these windows fills the tiny hole.

The people on the street, the manic father

the other father carrying his child in pink—this

millimeter’s-width opening is for a decade to fit through.

Look, there you go. There I go—there our landscape goes as if

through a fantastical roof’s hole, the shingle pulled off, the nail off—

our death is

flying over the city.


—Christine Garren