Love, V
- by me
- think and feel
- astral
- bloom and grow
- cats
- creativity
- cuteness
- handwritten
- literature
- love
- mandala
- music
- noir
- poetry
- quotes
- sex
- smoking
- spaces
- spirituality
- unicorn
- water
- wings
- women
- irina lazareanu
- devon aoki
- lily cole
- angelina jolie
- drew barrymore
Woman and cat.
Girl and guitar.
Twenty-one years old.
Cultural creative.
This is my voice.
Love,
V
P.S.
Love to hear from you.
Write me.
links
+/-
a print a day
acceso restrito
alonetone
anne: j'adore
astronomy picture of the day
audrey kawasaki found
beautiful and depraved
beautiful pictures
beautiful things
cultural creatives ?
daydream lily
dear ada
déModé
feanne: art, love, life & the senses
from betsy with love
girl meets nyc
laureola
le smoking
leelyth
loveology
mewl
my love for you is a stampede of horses
sex in art
space collective
tatielle
ted ideas worth spreading
the artist's way
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
♥
Sonnet Macabre
Sonnet Macabre
by Theodore Wratislaw
I love you for the grief that lurks within
Your languid spirit, and because you wear
Corruption with a vague and childish air,
And with your beauty know the depths of sin;
Because shame cuts and holds you like a gin,
And virtue dies in you slain by despair,
Since evil has you tangled in its snare
And triumphs on the soul good cannot win.
I love you since you know remorse and tears,
And in your troubled loveliness appears
The spot of ancient crimes that writhe and hiss:
I love you for your hands that calm and bless,
The perfume of your sad and slow caress,
The avid poison of your subtle kiss.
La Mélinite: Moulin-Rouge
La Mélinite: Moulin-Rouge
Arthur Symons, 1895
Olivier Metra’s Waltz of Roses
Sheds in a rhythmic shower
The very petals of the flower;
And all is roses,
The rouge of petals in a shower.
Down the long hall the dance returning
Rounds the full circle, rounds
The perfect rose of lights and sounds,
The rose returning
Into the circle of its rounds.
Alone, apart, one dancer watches
Her mirrored, morbid grace;
Before the mirror, face to face,
Alone she watched
her morbid, vague, ambiguous grace.
Before the mirror’s dance of shadows
She dances in a dream,
And she and they together seem
A dance of shadows,
Alike the shadows of a dream.
The orange-rosy lamps are trembling
Between the robes that turn;
In ruddy flowers of flame that burn
The lights are trembling:
The shadows and the dancers turn.
And, enigmatically smiling,
In the mysterious night,
She dances for her own delight,
A shadow smiling
Back to a shadow in the night.
haiku
In This World,
Kobayashi IssaIn this world
we walk on the roof of hell,
gazing at flowers.
Your world was a whispering water
At the river of my heart ”
Rumi
Poetry by Rumi
My soul glowed from the fire of your fire
Your world was a whispering water
At the river of my heart
~
We come spinning out of nothingness,
scattering stars like dust.
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley
published 1875
—- —- —-
Still one of my favourite poems.
(via Amberwaves)
to touch my fingers on the rippling clouds,
to swim into the depths of your soul,
and fly through the stasis of our dreams. ”
Our Dreams Stood In Silence poetry by Danny Sillada
A handful of birdsong
But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her,
barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my window
in one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor.
She will look in at me with her thin arms extended,
offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light.
William Collins
cut
tucked inside long, dark sleeves
in a bus full of soulless strangers
like the searing beat of a bull’s horn
that rips open a sea of red blankets
we create scars only we know of
Christina Rossetti poetry
SONG
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.


