poetry

artemisdreaming:

Purple smoke rises from the mountain top
The peak looks like an incense burner in the sunlight
Far away I see the valley stretching before me
The whole waterfall hangs there
The torrent dropping three thousand feet
Straight down to the valley floor
I think it must be the milky way
Spilling to the earth from the heavens.

~Li Bai, Viewing the Lu Mountain Falls
Image:   Man looking at a waterfall, Li Tang , (Chinese, 1050s-1130), Qing dynasty, Smithsonian Museum                 

artemisdreaming:

Purple smoke rises from the mountain top

The peak looks like an incense burner in the sunlight

Far away I see the valley stretching before me

The whole waterfall hangs there

The torrent dropping three thousand feet

Straight down to the valley floor

I think it must be the milky way

Spilling to the earth from the heavens.


~Li Bai, Viewing the Lu Mountain Falls

Image:   Man looking at a waterfall, Li Tang , (Chinese, 1050s-1130), Qing dynasty, Smithsonian Museum                 

…I have died out of the human world and come to feel a strange, cold, aqueous, terraqueous, aerial, ethereal sympathy and existence. I sow the sun and moon for seeds.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

(via franflow)

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via 4thsoul)

backroadshaiku:

morning bird songs

from long ago

…a lingering moon

Understand, I’ll slip quietly
away from the noisy crowd
when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.

I’ll pursue solitary pathways
through the pale twilit meadows,
with only this one dream:

You come too.

—Rainer Marie Rilke, “Pathways” (via oofpoetry)

(via dailymindfulness)

myinkstainedheart:

Why won’t you be quiet?
Even the wind knows not to disrupt
the trees so late in the evening.
But you brute would hiss throughout
the night, for my name, for your name -
(you scold me)
Why, I have not forgotten it yet.

(via myinkstainedheart)

April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.

—T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (via viage)

(Source: petrichour, via dailymindfulness)

You worship the blood
you call it hysterical bleeding
you want to drink it like milk
you dip your finger into it and write
you faint at the smell of it
you dream of dumping me into the sea.

—Adrienne Rich, from Waking In The Dark (via violentwavesofemotion)