#endless poetry

[artamour13]

I no longer see the world through your eyes.

🎥 Alejandro Jodorowsky 🔥 Endless Poetry (2016)

[thatcinemascreencapguy]

Endless Poetry (2016) directed by Alejandro Jodorowsky

[victusinveritas]

Endless Poetry (2016) dir. Alejandro Jodorowsky

[cinemajunkie70]

The happiest of birthdays to the great Alejandro Jodorowsky!

[leawnews]

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Films that feel like Literature (Vol.1)

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[hussyknee]

Her final tweet on October 8 reads:

“Gaza’s night is dark apart from the glow of rockets, quiet apart from the sound of the bombs, terrifying apart from the comfort of prayer, black apart from the light of the martyrs. Good night, Gaza.”

[wordsofwilderness]

I feel so cruel whenever I write a long section of Regulus being without James.

Like he needs James

James is his enrichment

You can't just take away his enrichment??

[zeb-z]

demon girl tina who shaves her horns down, who tries to be everything a demon isn’t. never angry, never pressed, sweet and easygoing. perfect in every sense of the term. who’s traumatized from purgatory, who’s afraid of losing what she loves as much as she’s afraid of being shunned by who she loves for what she is. for all the imperfections that fracture her perfect image. who craves trust, a place to belong, the secret of who she is just bubbling under the surface, shaved down and hidden just underneath the cat ears she wears.

human girl bagi who embraces imperfection, who loves with loyalty and longevity. who would go to the ends of the earth for her loved ones, knowing their worst sins, their terrible crimes, and going I will love you anyway. I will be there for you anyway. who’s best friend is a demon, who she knows is a demon, who she met at his worst, and wouldn’t let him go through it alone. who understands the importance of secrets, which means she knows the value of honesty, and is ready to lay out all her truths once she cares about someone enough, trusts them enough.

tina getting flighty and nervous when she’s told that it’s love what bagi feels - not because she doesn’t feel the same, but because she does, and it’s all she’s ever wanted, and isn’t that just terrifying? because she doesn’t think she fully deserves it. not yet at least! and she doesn’t want to lose it. imperfect, clumsy, secretly a demon tina, still processing purgatory and everything that came before, so afraid because she believes she can’t measure up. once she’s worked on herself, once she’s perfect, she says. once she stops panicking at purgatory flashbacks, once she stops losing her temper, once she can provide stability, once she’s shaved her horns and they stop growing back - then she’ll be ready. as soon as she’s made herself into something easily lovable.

bagi listens to tina as she spills some of this to her, under the moonlight along the beach. not quite all her worries, but some, just like she had given not quite her whole heart, but a part of it, in that room that represents bagi’s mind. and bagi doesn’t press for more than what she’ll give, because she cherishes what has been given already, because she’s in no rush and has no where else to go, because above all else, she’s in love and willing to wait. and in the meantime, she’ll reassure tina that she doesn’t want perfection - she just wants tina the way she is.

[maybe-itsforthebest]

there are so many wonderful things i could be doing that i'm just not. not because i can't, just because i don't. i say i don't feel like it today and i scroll through pictures of beautiful places i could be and wonderful things i could be doing. and i wake to another meaningless day.

[mournfulroses]

Louise Glück, from Winter Recipes from the Collective: Poems; "An Endless Story,"

[journalofabird]

"To love is loving the unlovable, to forgive means pardoning the unpardonable.

Faith means believing the unbelievable and hope means hoping, even when everything seems hopeless."

- Fiddler's Green

[ibrithir-was-here]

Been watching OTGW and this silly little idea popped into my head and I had to doodle it quick xD

[cuubism]

i said i might write something based on Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda and well. yeah.

--

“Have you been thinking much of this time?” Dream asks.

They are at the beginning. The ancient, smoky main room of the White Horse, all the way back then, when that sweet, starlit entity had loomed over Hob with challenge and strangeness and then swept away again, leaving the start of a story in his wake. Only this time, Dream is sitting with him, and the rest of the room is faded out, as it had when Hob had first seen him, this collected truth of the universe.

(Dream does not believe in objective truth—of course he doesn’t, he is made of dreams—though he would not articulate it that way if asked. Hob, meanwhile, knows at least one truth, and it’s what he feels when he looks at Dream.)

“Don’t you think of it?” he asks, wrapping an arm around Dream’s waist, fingers over his hipbone. It is a dream, but that distinction does not matter to Hob much anymore.

“I suppose. I think of much.”

“‘Course you do.” He strokes his hand up and down Dream’s side, and Dream hums. “I wondered about following you. Think if I did you’d have been gone into smoke already.”

“Yes. I did not care to stay long.”

“Nor I,” Hob admits.

“Truly?” says Dream, with surprise.

“Was thinking about you too much,” Hob says. “How could I go back to just chatting with my mates when I had seen you?”

“Why did you stay, then?”

“You have to take time with your mates while you have it,” Hob says. “Didn’t need six hundred years of life to know that one. Just a couple dozen deaths. Had the rest of eternity to mull over you, after all.”

“And did you?” Dream asks.

“Oh, yes.” He pulls Dream close. Slides over until he’s half in his lap, straddling his thigh, perfectly placed to kiss him. Hands on his shoulders, his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw. Once, Hob had held him from afar, like a wish. Now, Hob holds him close, as dream, as friend, as lover, in his human way, with sweat and time and hands.

“I mulled over you like fine wine,” Hob says, twisting his fingers in Dream’s hair, and Dream smiles. Hob kisses him again. Sips of his mouth like mulled wine, indeed. But his love for Dream is nothing so fleeting as spice on his tongue.

Or as fleeting as Dream sometimes thinks it will be. Dream is a living love poem to creation. But he does not know how to be loved in the way Hob wants to love him. In the way Hob does love him. Hob thinks that Dream knows how to be loved as a dream is loved, as a hope is loved, as an ideal is loved: held in glass, or in the sky, distant, perfect, disappointing up close. Parts of him are held as bubbles in different souls, but never in entirety.

He knows how to be loved as a nightmare is loved, bloody fear and history, raw closeness, curling in the humors of the body. He has been loved as a story is loved, which is to say, as creation is loved, as transmission is loved, as distance, as connection, as hearts on radio waves, as endings are loved, the pathways of him, container and fill.

Dream does not know how to be loved as a person is loved.

Hob loves him still when he grows teeth, and when a sweet taste comes to his mouth. Hob loves him as potential, as uncertainty. Story unset in stone. In softening belly and uneven step. Hob will show him how to be loved as a person is loved, because Dream is a person, especially when he insists he is not, and Hob loves him as one, has loved him as one, and Dream, who is used to being loved as dreams, cannot comprehend this.

He asks, sometimes. Why? Not even in a hurt, self-hating way. In a genuinely curious way, for he is not used to it. Hob hasn’t had the answer to that. Just trust that I do.

This moment, kissing Dream in the smoke of memory, is an answer. This is the beginning, but a fragment of words comes back to him, read in the between-time, when they were apart.

“You wanted to know why I loved you.” His lips are to Dream’s skin as he speaks, moved to his throat, his chest, pulling open his high collar, as Dream shivers under him. In the Dreaming, things can be like other things in a way that makes no sense in the Waking; Dreaming-sense is like a collage, the distant truth of collected fragments. And so touching Dream’s skin is like stepping out into the earliest morning, before the human world’s woken up, and feeling what’s un-meant to be felt.

“I do not think love needs a why,” Dream says. “Yet I have wondered.”

He gets it, Hob thinks, except that he doesn’t let himself.

He traces the harsh line of Dream’s collarbone with his mouth. Dream is full of harsh lines and seems incapable of letting softness stick to his bones. “‘I love you because I know no other way than this.’”

“I am familiar with the poem,” Dream says, but his voice is caught on Hob's words, his long fingers disbelieving in Hob’s hair.

“Are you?”

“Between shadow and soul is where dreams reside,” says Dream.

“And what about Dream?” Hob says, looking up at him, stressing the singular.

Dream’s lips purse, and Hob goes back to kissing his chest, up his sternum, over his heart. “I know,” he says between kisses, “no other way. Than this.”

Dream tangles him up, long arms, legs curled together, shadow and star around him. Hob’s loved him so long that he doesn’t remember what it was like not to. He has been tangled up in Dream since the beginning. It is what he is.

“A dream resides where it is wanted,” says Dream, finally answering his question. His voice has roughened, his breath has quickened, affected by Hob’s touch, by the words of the poem. Each lick, and kiss, and bite coils the Dreaming closer around them. One day it might be harder to wake up than to fall asleep.

“It’s wanted,” Hob says, and claims his beautiful mouth, pressing him back against the wall. His hair in its uncontrollable frissons, his eyes in their changeable void, his needy starvation of a thousand unanswered love poems—this kiss is a response to those missives. Dream is in the shadowed parts of him, in his turning points, in the words he speaks. Hob sees his answer in the tears that bead along his eyes but refuse to fall, in his darkness and whimsical creations, and his surprised, gentle pleasure when he’s kissed.

Hob loves him so. There’s no moral or end to that story. Hob’s love for Dream is. Full stop. End of sentence.

[writing-for-life]

Dreams of Light

Art by JH Williams III, words by @writing-for-life

Another poem for the @sandman-rarepair-fest , this time for the Hand Holding prompt.

I wish I’d found the time to write a fic for the event for these two, and I will one day—Alianora is such an important and yet ignored character.

Dreams of Light

[Alt text for the poem]

From realms unknown

She came to be.

Bearing a scar

Of battles won.

Dreams are shaped

Hand in hand.

Touch builds worlds

And weaves love.

Time is a thief

Of joy and light,

Casting shadows

On what once was.

And love dies

In silence.

Pain remains

Just like scars.

Final farewells

Holding echoes

Of dreams of light

In endless night.

[The metre/syllabic structure in this killed me, but that just as an aside 🤣]

[sadghostgirl14]

[no-where-new-hero]

thinking about "scheherazade" by richard siken again (i am always thinking about "scheherazade" by richard siken)