occludedvalves:

Huwag kang lalayo.
Kung ipilit man ng panahon,
huwag mong baunin ang iyong halimuyak.
Ibasbas mo sa kalawaka’t
maging tanging hanging aking sasamyuhin. 

Frank O’ Hara reads “Having A Coke With You.”

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism

— Rumi

— Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson (via tylerknott)

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you — Nobody — too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise — you know!


How dreary — to be — Somebody!
How public — like a Frog —
To tell one’s name — the livelong June —
To an admiring Bog!

sirpumpkinhead:

O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

- John Keats

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After dark vapors have oppress’d our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle south, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious month, relieving from its pains,
Takes a long-lost right the feel of May;
The eyelids with the passing coolness play
Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains.
The calmest thoughts come round us: as of leaves
Budding; fruit ripening in stillness; autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves;
Sweet Sappho’s cheek; a smiling infant’s breath;
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs;
A woodland rivulet; a poet’s death.

31 January 1817

And perhaps we met
In an ocean,
Where the salt gathered
In between our
Synapses;
Never really needing
The force of time and
Convergence
To haul us
To shore,
Never anticipating
The promise of
Safety on blank
Little grains,
Digressing,
Undressing,
Coming whole
Again.

Do not run, for what you scurry from
Knows not of distance, nor of speed;
Your battle advances at the chill
Of somebody’s last word,
Or in the pulse that
Aligns you to time—
Continuity—.
Rush not for hurt is never fleeting,
For though you seek, and in your seeking,
Are dictated to run,
Will never quite arrive.