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Some are cut from hard stone, others molded from clay—
As for me, I am silver and luster!
I trade in betrayal, Marina’s my name,
I am the vanishing sea spume.

Some are molded from clay, others from flesh—
So give them their gravestones and coffins.
The sea was my baptistery, and in flight,
My own flight—I am ceaselessly scattered!

My rebellious will ruptures every blockade:
No heart and no net can withstand it.
See these loose, rakish locks?—I shall never be made
To serve in the earth’s vaunted salting.

Splintering over your tall granite knees,
In each crest I am resurrected!
Long live the foam—the jubilant foam,
The sea foam that rises, exalted!

—Marina Tsvetaeva

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"I was made for another planet altogether. I mistook the way."

— Simone de Beauvoir (via journalofanobody)

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"I can think, because you’re on Earth. I can wake up and open the windowpane and look around and gain access to that very first impression of the morning light because you came back and you are here. You are here and I can finally breathe."

Simone de Beauvoir, from Letters To Sartre (via petrichour)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via an-itinerant-poet)

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Two countries I grew up in are going to war with each other. The third one is at war with itself. (Among other wars, but those ceased to be news some years ago.) I can’t stop drinking coffee or reading the feeds and very actively not making a difference. It’s such a strange thing that happens: one’s inner life displaced by distant goings-on, by needing to know, needing to watch, needing to really be at the front of the sidelines, where usually one is content pretending to be at the center. 

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"…And someone passing the debris says:
“Maybe it got bored from neglect, or worn out
by time, for it’s as long as a giraffe and as meaningless
as a dust broom, and it provides no shade for lovers.”
A small boy says: “I used to draw it without error, its lines
were easy to follow.” And a girl says: “The sky
today is lacking because the cypress is in pieces.”
And a young man says: “No, the sky today is complete
because the cypress is in pieces.” And I say to myself:
“It’s not obscure or clear, the cypress is in pieces -
there’s only this: the cypress is in pieces.”"

— Mahmoud Darwish

(Source: bigbridge.org)

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Tags: lygia clark
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I read: “An image at the end of a garden / flowers.” Light a cigarette, look up: at the other end of our deck, Meri, too, is reading poems; she looks up, smiles. I read: “the same endless expanse / covered with snow   with white-painted snow.”  I think: places on the planet where the snow never melts, places on the planet which the snow never touches. I think: Los Angeles and light that never leaves, infects everything; city of fruit always already rotting, always already splattered slick across the sidewalk; already dry and dust. City I love. Our deck I love, and the garland of rusted bells, which no one disturbs, of unknown origin. I read: “The painted surface splits.” I read: “The world ends there // And there it begins   gratuitously.”  

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