poetry

At certain moments I could swear there is even a sense of being liked, as sunlight changes swiftly, leaving, leaving and arriving again. A bird is chirping bitterly, as if these words were meant for me, as if their intent was within me, and will not speak. Nothing is left me of you.

Franz Wright, closing lines to “Goodbye,” from Kindertotenwald (Alfred A. Knopf, 2011)

(Source: apoetreflects)

artemisdreaming:

Seven Bowls of Tea
The first bowl moistens my lips and throat; 一碗喉吻潤,The second bowl breaks my loneliness; 二碗破孤悶,The third bowl searches my barren entrails but to find 三碗搜枯腸,Therein some five thousand scrolls; 惟有文字五千卷,The fourth bowl raises a slight perspiration 四碗發輕汗,And all life’s inequities pass out through my pores; 平生不平事盡向毛孔散,The fifth bowl purifies my flesh and bones; 五碗肌骨清,The sixth bowl calls me to the immortals. 六碗通仙靈,The seventh bowl could not be drunk, 七碗吃不得也,only the breath of the cool wind raises in my sleeves. 唯覺兩腋習習清風生。Where is Penglai Island, Lu Tong wishes to ride on this sweet breeze and go back. 蓬萊山﹐在何處,玉川子乘此清風欲歸去。~ Lú Tóng 盧仝
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~Lu Tong  卢仝, 790–835
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Artemis:  :-/   Lu Tong was a Tang Dynasty poet.  Most of his poetry was about tea and the tea ceremony.  Lu loved his tea.   LOL  
Image:  360doc.com 

artemisdreaming:

Seven Bowls of Tea

The first bowl moistens my lips and throat; 一碗喉吻潤,
The second bowl breaks my loneliness; 二碗破孤悶,
The third bowl searches my barren entrails but to find 三碗搜枯腸,
Therein some five thousand scrolls; 惟有文字五千卷,
The fourth bowl raises a slight perspiration 四碗發輕汗,
And all life’s inequities pass out through my pores; 平生不平事盡向毛孔散,
The fifth bowl purifies my flesh and bones; 五碗肌骨清,
The sixth bowl calls me to the immortals. 六碗通仙靈,
The seventh bowl could not be drunk, 七碗吃不得也,
only the breath of the cool wind raises in my sleeves. 唯覺兩腋習習清風生。
Where is Penglai Island, Lu Tong wishes to ride on this sweet breeze and go back. 蓬萊山﹐在何處,玉川子乘此清風欲歸去。~ Lú Tóng 盧仝

.

~Lu Tong  卢仝, 790–835

.

Artemis:  :-/   Lu Tong was a Tang Dynasty poet.  Most of his poetry was about tea and the tea ceremony.  Lu loved his tea.   LOL  

Image:  360doc.com 

(via whitehorseisnotahorse)

A row of resting birds makes visible a distant power line
that the sky had blotted out,

yet others of their flock cannot stop moving—
they fret, twirling and rising in a surge

like the leaves kicked up yesterday,
which blew into my car window

as I drove to meet you. It all seems so unsettled—
and though we long for clarity,

for the uncertainty to settle and present itself
still as a sleeping bird,

we glory in the delay, in not knowing,
when an answer would eliminate

all possibilities but one. Better the agitated world,
birds scattering past each other in their frenzy.

Lisa Ampleman, "Murmuration," from Full Cry (National Federation of State Poetry Societies Press, 2013)  (via apoetreflects)

Perhaps one day you touch the young branch
of something beautiful. & it grows & grows
despite your birthdays & the death certificate,
& it one day shades the heads of something beautiful
or makes itself useful to the nest. Walk out
of your house, then, believing in this.
Nothing else matters.

Aracelis Girmay, “Elegy” from Kingdom Animalia (BOA Editions Ltd., 2011)

(Source: literarymiscellany, via apoetreflects)

That is all there is — perception and memory. But it’s ragged.

Siri Hustvedt, from The Blazing World (Simon and Schuster, 2014)

(Source: miscfisc, via apoetreflects)

What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours - that is what you must be able to attain.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via stxxz)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)