saturdaynightfever103-blog

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Norse Mythology

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If we return to the old home as to a nest, it is because memories are dreams, because the home of other days has become a great image of lost intimacy.

Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (via heteroglossia)

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Zachary Schomburg

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“Maybe poems are made of breath, the way water, cajoled to boil, says, This is my soul, freed.”

—  Dean Young in an excerpt from Scarecrow on Fire

painting by Bill Bate

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Henri Cole, Blackbird and Wolf

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Salvador Dali painting La Cara de la Guerra (The Visage of War) in 1940.

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Disney's Fantasia

Fantasia, The Pastoral Symphony (1940)

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Ariana Reines

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Harry Potter

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WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man’s legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them- selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground. May 1978

Carolyn Forché, the Colonel (via skagandschisms)

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Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales

#selfie

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Lord Byron, Shelley, Keats

Romantics who have ruined my life <3

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Agalloch - …And the Great Cold Death of the Earth (The Mantle / 2002)

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Yusef Komunyakaa

My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn’t, dammit: No tears. I’m stone. I’m flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I’m...

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Jane Austen’s original manuscript of Persuasion

More handwritten manuscript pages from Classic novels 

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John Keats

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

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The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis