brightkinds

[brightkinds]

Via

[brightkinds]

“summer? my memory flutters — had i — was there a summer?”

— Emily Dickinson, from a letter to J. G. Holland featured in The Letters of Emily Dickinson  (via feestje)

[brightkinds]

“…the honey-bearing chaos of high summer.”

— Kenneth Rexroth, from Sacramental Acts: The Love Poems; “On What Planet,”

[brightkinds]

— august, tathève simonyan

[text ID: promises made by june / had rotten / by the time august came. / i’ve mistaken silence with nothingness / and unlearning it asks for courage / i know not how to muster. / this half-empty glass of orange juice, / ever-present on its throne of dust, / on this wooden table, / holds more promise than i ever will. / i, a personified you, for this is not a wall but a mirror / [personified] / i, i mean you, i mean [redacted] / you eat the sun and with your burnt tongue / try to sing songs / not about pain. / don’t you? / in july / [i] you tried to stretch the rare / moments of happiness but our feet / always seemed to stay out of the / blanket / uncovered. / how do i love something without / fully succumbing to it? / you thought you had to die for you to live, didn’t you? / you thought there’s always a spring after a winter / you didn’t think that / this vivaldian symphony hadn’t been written for bodies like ours, . did you? / in july / you didn’t know that loneliness is a crowded town / yet /  it’s always been bestowed upon you / to lock the gates / and turn off the lights / every night, / did you? / june made promises it knew it couldn’t keep. / but i shall be wiser / in august.]

[brightkinds]

“On certain summer days, when the dusk is falling, Even if there’s no breeze, it seems For a moment that a light breeze is passing… But the trees remain still In all the leaves of their leaves. Our senses had an illusion— The illusion of what, in that moment, would please them…”

— Fernando Pessoa, from section XLI of “The Keeper of Sheep,” A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems (Penguin Classics, 2006)

[brightkinds]

“Three o'clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars…”

— Anton Chekhov, from “Love”

[brightkinds]

growing out of my rot and finding myself again slowly... it is april

[brightkinds]

Jonathan Wells, “April Morning”

[brightkinds]

“April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.”

— T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

[brightkinds]

— Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath

[text ID: Outside it is warm and blue and April.]

[brightkinds]

T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

[brightkinds]

― Emily Dickinson

[brightkinds]

Maurice Manning, from "Lent"

[brightkinds]

[brightkinds]

[brightkinds]

????? march ?????? again ??????

[brightkinds]

march sunlight… coming soon to a window near you