Hyacinths and Biscuits

“Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.” Carl Sandburg
midwestmountainmama: shelikesitlit: Artist: Joseph Wierenga  you know what—i love this and think it’s beautiful… but goddamn. does any artist in the *WORLD* think that women who have an unrequited love are worth exploring? any one? bueller? the *BIGGEST* reason I listened to alanis morrisette all those years ago, on repeat, until the tape wore out (jesus, I went through, like, three cassette tapes of that jaged little pill album), was almost solely for that line—it’s meeting the man of your dreams, and then meeting his *beautiful* wife… and I think the whole reason brigette jone’s diary and sixteen candles are so popular is because OMG HEY!!!! GURLS FALL IN LOVE WITH MEN WHO AREN’T INTERESTED TOO!!! AND THAT DOESN”T MAKE A GURL SAD PATHETIC LOSER—THAT MAKES HER A HUMAN BEING LIKE FUCKING SHAKESPEARE AND BOB DYLAN AND EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER JOHN CUSAK HAS EVER PLAYED!!!!!! ***holds boom box over my head*** I loved a guy once. And he didn’t want me. And I never told him I wanted him. Because I knew he’d never want me. And if I had changed how I looked he still wouldn’t have wanted me. And if I had given him head he still wouldn’t have wanted me. And if I had taken off my glasses and swung my hair around he still wouldn’t have wanted me. Because guys are these odd sort of creatures that may not smoke cigerettes while they stare off into the distance on a rainy day in France while sitting in a coffee shop—but they DO focus entirely too much on sports and depend way to much on the approval of their man friends. ***turns up boom box louder*** i really loved that guy and wrote a lot of really bad horrible stories based on my love for him. I imagined a world that would allow him to see me—and kinda didn’t really like that world because part of what was so charming about him was how excited he got about skateboarding and the way his eyes lit up when talking about it. Skateboarding was HIS love. But I didn’t see that then, and I especially couldn’t see it when he was walking all over school with the blond hooked onto his arm. he and I were *friends*—but she had him. She went to his competitions—but she didn’t know how his eyes lit up, the way I did. ***sets down boombox to better wipe tears*** it hurts to not be loved back. and to not be loved back happens to ALL of us, not just Ernest Hemmingway wannabe dudes who loved a girl in france once. And just like that girl from France gets up out of the coffee shop and walks away for ever, never once looking back at the dude whose heart is broken—the same thing happens to ALL the rest of us. We NEVER turn into cinderella, only to find out that our man loved us when we were ugly too and aren’t we lucky. And only every once in a while does that skater boy grow the fuck up and love us back, just as we are or come to find us at our sister’s wedding. and as amazingly right on as jordan catalano was as a first love for angela—the *truth* is the vast majority of us never would’ve even gotten Jordan. Most of us would’ve been Brian, fucking obnoxious assholes to the girl who expressed interest because she’s gets in the way of looking at Angela. That is the nature of love. The vast majority of the time it is heart break. And unrequited. That’s what makes finding it so amazing and special. and Jesus ABOVE life would just be so much easier if doods didn’t hold this extra special place where being rejected by a girl in france made you awesome and girls didn’t hold this extra shitty place where being rejected by skateboarder made her a loser and all the rest of us were never going to get a date any damn way because no amount of cinderella fairy princess could ever get us to see without our glasses on. **turns off boom box** I loved a guy once. And it was a perfect love and he was beautiful and I never told him I loved him and my heart hurt so hard for so long, i don’t think I breathed my entire senior year. And then I started dating people, and I realized I loved gurls too, and then I found a life partner and I figured out for the first time that love is hard and then we fought endlessly for months over money and I realized again that love is hard and then we realized we were too poor to get a divorce so we had to keep trying and I realized that not only is love hard, it’s fucking HARD ASS WORK and falling in love is only the beginning—and I don’t think back about that skater boy whose eyes I knew very often, but when i do, I think of him fondly because it wasn’t really love, it was falling in love—and there would’ve been a day with him too when his shiny eyes wouldn’t have been enough to pay the bills and I would’ve fallen asleep dreaming about how I could gouge his eyes out with my bare fingernails…but for a short period in my life, i, working class gurl, knew what it felt like to love without labor. and it hurt and i couldn’t breath and jealousy was my constant companion.  but to love without labor is a beautiful thing. and it helps you to understand what you’re fighting for when you find yourself stuck loving in the war years. just like art does. which is why it’d be amazing if people who are NOT white doods in love with a girl in a tea shop had some time on the drawing board as well.

midwestmountainmama:

shelikesitlit:

Artist: Joseph Wierenga 

you know what—i love this and think it’s beautiful…

but goddamn. does any artist in the *WORLD* think that women who have an unrequited love are worth exploring? any one? bueller? the *BIGGEST* reason I listened to alanis morrisette all those years ago, on repeat, until the tape wore out (jesus, I went through, like, three cassette tapes of that jaged little pill album), was almost solely for that line—it’s meeting the man of your dreams, and then meeting his *beautiful* wife…

and I think the whole reason brigette jone’s diary and sixteen candles are so popular is because OMG HEY!!!! GURLS FALL IN LOVE WITH MEN WHO AREN’T INTERESTED TOO!!! AND THAT DOESN”T MAKE A GURL SAD PATHETIC LOSER—THAT MAKES HER A HUMAN BEING LIKE FUCKING SHAKESPEARE AND BOB DYLAN AND EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER JOHN CUSAK HAS EVER PLAYED!!!!!!

***holds boom box over my head***

I loved a guy once. And he didn’t want me. And I never told him I wanted him. Because I knew he’d never want me. And if I had changed how I looked he still wouldn’t have wanted me. And if I had given him head he still wouldn’t have wanted me. And if I had taken off my glasses and swung my hair around he still wouldn’t have wanted me. Because guys are these odd sort of creatures that may not smoke cigerettes while they stare off into the distance on a rainy day in France while sitting in a coffee shop—but they DO focus entirely too much on sports and depend way to much on the approval of their man friends.

***turns up boom box louder***

i really loved that guy and wrote a lot of really bad horrible stories based on my love for him. I imagined a world that would allow him to see me—and kinda didn’t really like that world because part of what was so charming about him was how excited he got about skateboarding and the way his eyes lit up when talking about it. Skateboarding was HIS love.

But I didn’t see that then, and I especially couldn’t see it when he was walking all over school with the blond hooked onto his arm. he and I were *friends*—but she had him. She went to his competitions—but she didn’t know how his eyes lit up, the way I did.

***sets down boombox to better wipe tears***

it hurts to not be loved back. and to not be loved back happens to ALL of us, not just Ernest Hemmingway wannabe dudes who loved a girl in france once. And just like that girl from France gets up out of the coffee shop and walks away for ever, never once looking back at the dude whose heart is broken—the same thing happens to ALL the rest of us. We NEVER turn into cinderella, only to find out that our man loved us when we were ugly too and aren’t we lucky. And only every once in a while does that skater boy grow the fuck up and love us back, just as we are or come to find us at our sister’s wedding. and as amazingly right on as jordan catalano was as a first love for angela—the *truth* is the vast majority of us never would’ve even gotten Jordan. Most of us would’ve been Brian, fucking obnoxious assholes to the girl who expressed interest because she’s gets in the way of looking at Angela.

That is the nature of love. The vast majority of the time it is heart break. And unrequited. That’s what makes finding it so amazing and special.

and Jesus ABOVE life would just be so much easier if doods didn’t hold this extra special place where being rejected by a girl in france made you awesome and girls didn’t hold this extra shitty place where being rejected by skateboarder made her a loser and all the rest of us were never going to get a date any damn way because no amount of cinderella fairy princess could ever get us to see without our glasses on.

**turns off boom box**

I loved a guy once. And it was a perfect love and he was beautiful and I never told him I loved him and my heart hurt so hard for so long, i don’t think I breathed my entire senior year.

And then I started dating people, and I realized I loved gurls too, and then I found a life partner and I figured out for the first time that love is hard and then we fought endlessly for months over money and I realized again that love is hard and then we realized we were too poor to get a divorce so we had to keep trying and I realized that not only is love hard, it’s fucking HARD ASS WORK and falling in love is only the beginning—and I don’t think back about that skater boy whose eyes I knew very often, but when i do, I think of him fondly because it wasn’t really love, it was falling in love—and there would’ve been a day with him too when his shiny eyes wouldn’t have been enough to pay the bills and I would’ve fallen asleep dreaming about how I could gouge his eyes out with my bare fingernails…but for a short period in my life, i, working class gurl, knew what it felt like to love without labor. and it hurt and i couldn’t breath and jealousy was my constant companion. 

but to love without labor is a beautiful thing. and it helps you to understand what you’re fighting for when you find yourself stuck loving in the war years. just like art does. which is why it’d be amazing if people who are NOT white doods in love with a girl in a tea shop had some time on the drawing board as well.

(via muchomegamountains)

Faults, Sara Teasdale

They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before,—
Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.

You Are Tired (I Think)

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

E.E. Cummings

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Ingrid Michaelson

—Parachute

Caption from 1955: “An international beauty queen models the latest swimwear. This piece includes circles on which to strike matches to light your cigarette on the beach.”

Caption from 1955: “An international beauty queen models the latest swimwear. This piece includes circles on which to strike matches to light your cigarette on the beach.”

Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. 
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. 
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day 
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. 

I hunger for your sleek laugh, 
your hands the color of a savage harvest, 
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, 
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. 

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, 
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, 
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, 

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, 
hunting for you, for your hot heart, 
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

A Paper Bag, Margaret Atwood

I make my head, as I used to,
out of a paper bag,
pull it down to the collarbone,

draw eyes around my eyes
with purple and green
spikes to show surprise,
a thumb-shaped nose,

a mouth around my mouth,
penciled by touch, then coloured in
flat red.

With this new head, the body now
stretched like a stocking and exhausted could
dance again; if I made a
tongue I could sing.

An old sheet and it’s Halloween ;
but why is it worse or more
frightening, this pinface
head of square hair and no chin?

Like an idiot, it has no past
and is always entering the future
through its slots of eyes, purblind
and groping with its thick smile,
a tentacle of perpetual joy.

Paper head, I prefer you
because of your emptiness;
from within you any
word could still be said.

With you I could have
more than one skin,
a blank interior, a repertoire
of untold stories,
a fresh beginning.