Audubon. Mourning Dove

Led home into oblivion
the sociable talk of
our slow eyes.

Led home, syllable after syllable, shared
out among the dayblind dice, for which
the playing hand reaches out, large,

And the too much of my speaking:
heaped up round the little
crystal dressed in the style of your silence.

— Paul Celan, “Below” (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)


Engraving by Catherine or Elisabeth Haussard, from Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire des insectes, by René-Antoine Ferchault de Reaumur::Mount Holyoke Archives & Special Collections::1734

Reaumur’s observations of wasps chewing and spitting out wood to build their papery nests eventually led to the idea of making paper from wood pulp.

I do not know what to say
about this kind of love
but I refuse to lose it.
Michael Ondaatje, from “The Concessions” (via hiddenshores)
We all have an old knot in the heart we wish to untie.
— Ondaatje, Michael. The Cat’s Table.  (via wordsnquotes)
I left you because I knew I could never change you. You would stand in the room so still sometimes, as if the greatest betrayal of yourself would be to reveal one more inch of your character.
— Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient (via larmoyante)


If I were a cinnamon peeler

I would ride your bed

and leave the yellow bark dust

on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek

you could never walk through markets

without the profession of my fingers

floating over you. The blind would

stumble certain of…

I worry while I write, but, at the same time, the way I write, I allow anything to happen. I don’t have a path lined up beforehand, which would make it seem too dutiful—I would have to get to all these stations of the cross before I got to the end. I like leaving open the possibility that, say, somebody comes in and throws a glass of milk onto you—the fictional character, that is, not me.
— from Michael Ondaatje’s interview with author Calum McCann (via michaelondaatje222)


Nathalie Dallies

(Source: mpdrolet)

The sun scorches. The plane flies low
throwing a shadow in the form of a large cross rushing forward on the ground.
A man is crouching in the field at something.
The shadow comes.
For a fraction of a second he is in the middle of the cross.

I have seen the cross that hangs under cool church vaults.
Sometimes it’s like a snapshot
of something in violent movement.

— Tomas Tranströmer, from ‘In the Open’, translated by Robin Fulton. (via itgivesitthew)


Draft by jennifer brook on Flickr.