cometbookqueen-blog

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Stickers by Lora Mathis. Available here.

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Time

Having only a little means you take what you’ve got or, because it’s not worth enough, you don’t—like not picking up a penny because it’s only a little luck.

Lia Purpura, “Time,” It Shouldn’t Have Been Beautiful (Penguin Poets, 2015)

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I made a new blog for fav poems!! I am excluding love poems because I like poems best when love hovers in the background...FOLLOW ME ON IT OKAY? ok bye

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In the city of light

The last thing my father did for me  Was map a way: he died, & so  Made death possible. If he could do it, I  Will also, someday, be so honored. Once,

At night, I walked through the lit streets  Of New York, from the Gramercy Park Hotel  Up Lexington & at that hour, alone,  I stopped hearing traffic, voices, the racket

Of spring wind lifting a newspaper high  Above the lights. The streets wet,  And shining. No sounds. Once,

When I saw my son be born, I thought  How loud this world must be to him, how final.

That night, out of respect for someone missing,  I stopped listening to it.

Out of respect for someone missing,  I have to say

This isn’t the whole story.  The fact is, I was still in love.  My father died, & I was still in love. I know  It’s in bad taste to say it quite this way. Tell me,  How would you say it?

The story goes: wanting to be alone & wanting  The easy loneliness of travelers,

I said good-bye in an airport & flew west.  It happened otherwise.  And where I’d held her close to me,  My skin felt raw, & flayed.

Descending, I looked down at light lacquering fields  Of pale vines, & small towns, each  With a water tower; then the shadows of wings;  Then nothing.

My only advice is not to go away.  Or, go away. Most

Of my decisions have been wrong.

When I wake, I lift cold water  To my face. I close my eyes.

A body wishes to be held, & held, & what  Can you do about that?

Because there are faces I might never see again,  There are two things I want to remember  About light, & what it does to us.

Her bright, green eyes at an airport—how they widened  As if in disbelief;  And my father opening the gate: a lit, & silent

City.

- Larry Levis

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Das Wunderzeichenbuch (The Book of Miracles), Augsburg, 1552.

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María Izquierdo | Mexican

Sueño y presentimiento | 1947

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Shinichi Sawada

2006-10, clay and natural glaze

Image: Wellcome Collection London

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And there were gossips sitting there, By one, by two, by three…

Arthur Rackham, from The Ingoldsby Legends by Thomas Ingoldsby (Richard Harris Barham), London, New York, 1907.

(Source: archive.org)

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‘Unable to find true identity of egg.’ Godzilla vs Mothra

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badgers, badgers, badgers

Gaston Phoebus, Livre de la chasse, Avignon ca. 1375-1400

BnF, Français 619, fol. 23v

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Drinking buddies - c. 1930s - (Via)

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“ŒUFS” (Eggs), illustration by Adolphe Millot from Nouveau Larousse Illustré vol. 6 p. 473 [1897-1904].

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I say I want to save the world but really I want to write poems all day 
I want to rise, write poems, go to sleep,
 Write poems in my sleep
 Make my dreams poems
 Make my body a poem with beautiful clothes
 I want my face to be a poem; 
I have just learned how to apply 
Eyeliner to the corners of my eyes to make them appear wide
 There is a romantic abandon in me always 
I want to feel the dread for others. I am no good.
 Goodness is not the point anymore
 Holding on to things
 Now that’s the point.

Dorothea Lasky, from Ars Poetica (via rustbeltjessie)

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(photos by lerchasaurus)

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Tales from Outer Suburbia