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april showers..

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@vanjo_

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homage to my hips

by Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips they need space to move around in. they don’t fit into little petty places. these hips are free hips. they don’t like to be held back. these hips have never been enslaved,   they go where they want to go they do what they want to do. these hips are mighty hips. these hips are magic hips. i have known them to put a spell on a man and spin him like a top!

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erykah

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༄🧚🏾‍♂️🧚🏿‍♂️🧚🏽‍♂️

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Let yourself bloom

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what are some poems/passages that you always go back to?

“The only real love I have ever felt was for children and other women. Everything else was lust, pity, self-hatred, pity, lust.” — Adrienne Rich

“Everyone in our culture desires to some extent to be loving, yet many are in fact not loving. I therefore conclude that the desire to love is not itself love. Love is as love does. Love is an act of will-namely both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.” — bell hooks

“[...] heart leaking something so strong

they can smell it in the street.” — Marty McConnell

“[...] I will survive my grief, amen.

I have run into the darkness and arrived in the morning still living, amen.

I have made my home anywhere I still have a name, amen.” — Hanif Abdurraqib

“My heart doesn’t ache; sometimes though it rages.” — Adrienne Rich

“[...] without tenderness, we are in hell.” — Adrienne Rich

“I am a woman searching for her savagery / even if it’s doomed.” — June Jordan

“You (where are you, really?) never leave me to my boredom: numb as I might like to be.” — June Jordan

“I wept and wept. I had come to believe that if I really wanted something badly enough, the very act of my wanting it was an assurance that I would not get it.” — Audre Lorde

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lupita nyong'o via instagram

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The Sea Raiders by Albert Goodwin

Depicts four Snekkjas (Viking longships) at sea amidst a flock of seagulls

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Ella Wheeler Wilcox, “Heaven And Hell”

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ZENDAYA paying tribute to Venus and Serena Williams’ 1998 Vogue Photoshoot (April 2024)

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Strawberry Layer Cake

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Riccardo Capotosti

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The animals in that country

by Margaret Atwood

In that country the animals have the faces of people:

the ceremonial cats possessing the streets

the fox run politely to earth, the huntsmen standing around him, fixed in their tapestry of manners

the bull, embroidered with blood and given an elegant death, trumpets, his name stamped on him, heraldic brand because

(when he rolled on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth in his blue mouth were human)

he is really a man

even the wolves, holding resonant conversations in their forests thickened with legend.

            In this country the animals             have the faces of             animals.

            Their eyes             flash once in car headlights             and are gone.

            Their deaths are not elegant.

            They have the faces of             no-one.