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ancientsstudies · 8 months

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I am too fond of reading books to care to write them.

ig credit: vintagesoul_reads.

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shusays · 28 days

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All suffering originates from craving, from attachment,from desire.

Edgar Allen Poe

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feral-ballad · 2 years

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Yrsa Daley-Ward, from bone; “nose”

[Text ID: “Last night I smelled you / in a dream.”]

#yrsa daley ward #dream #love #scent #night #smell #excerpts #writings #literature #poetry #fragments #selections #words #quotes #lit #typography #poetry collection #english literature #english poetry

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journalsofanaesthete · 18 days

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The voices in my head aren't poetic anymore. they don't recite me poems on loneliness or anxiety while I lie on the floor staring at the ceiling thinking about the sins I own.

The voices in my head aren't my enemies anymore. They have become my friends. And for them I ignore the whole world, shutting the door from percluding anyone to meet the friends I admire and adore.

The voices in my head don't speak anymore they just scream, scream at the highest possible pitch they could. They are as loud as the waves of the ocean no matter how much far I stand from the shore but I can still hear the noise they make.

The voices in my head are killing me yet I don't feel any pain because all the emotions, all the human emotions are very long gone. All that resides here is silence, numbness and emptiness.

The voices in my head aren't anyone else but me, I'm the voices in my head. Standing midst of a graveyard infront of the corpse that's been burned to ashes, ashes consisting of parts of me and my shattered dreams. ~ dishaa

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zindagi-se-darte-ho · 5 months

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franz kafka, diaries of franz kafka // taylor swift, evermore // emily bronte, wuthering heights // ada limon, shelter: a love letter to trees // yusef komunyakaa, pleasure dome: new and collected poems // anne sexton, a self-portrait in letters // franz kafka, the blue octavo notebooks // robert frost, my november guest // albert camus, the plague // gbenga adeoba, a short essay on drowning // virginia woolf, the complete works // talin tahajian // e. m. forster, howards end // louise erdrich, the sentence // cynthia rylant, in november // virginia woolf, diaries // may sarton, recovering: a journal // franz kafka, diaries of franz kafka

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his-heart-hymns · 3 months

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A life unendurable but it was endured.

-Czeslaw Milosz,Nobel Prize in Literature 1980

Jo guzari na ja saki hum se ,

hum ne woh zindagi guzari hai.

-Jaun Elia

The resilience we exhibit in persisting even after enduring so much is commendable.

#desiblr #anon #desi tumblr #desi aesthetic #desi academia #urdu lines #urdu poetry #urdu literature #urdu shayari #urdu aesthetic #urdu stuff #urdupoetry #urdu quote #urdu ghazal #english poetry #poems and quotes #spilled writing #spilled poetry #spilled thoughts

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edwardian-girl-next-door · 5 months

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December, from The Procession of Months (c.1889). All the poems were written by fifteen-year-old Beatrice Crane and illustrated by her acclaimed artist father, Walter Crane.

via contentinacottage.blogspot on pinterest

text id after cut off

[TEXT ID: "December" by Beatrice Crane.

Now wildly sweeps the wind

And wildly drives the sleet

DECEMBER fast draws nigh

Wrapped close from head to feet.

Her eyes glance restlessly

From shaken tree to plain,

The dark hair 'neath her hood

Is wet with frozen rain.

Her furry cloak she holds

With one hand round her form,

The other one lifts high

A torch to light the storm

Scance tree or shrub doth cheer

The dreary scene around,

Save for the moaning wind,

There is no other sound.

December's eyes grow sad

And fainter still her tread;

One hears a long, low sight

Which tells the year is dead. /end ID]

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nemralam · 2 years

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My eyes yearn to see you so come home from distant lands, beloved

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maihonhassan · 2 months

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In English we say:

"Every flaw i love in you except your absence"

- Mahmoud Darwish

But in Urdu Poetry we say:

"Jaise tujhe aate haiñ na aane ke bahāne, aise hī bahāne se na jaane ke liye aa"

- Talib Baghpati

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lepetitdragonvert · 5 months

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THE MOON MAIDEN’S SONG

Sleep ! Cast thy canopy

Over this sleeper’s brain,

Dim grow his memory,

When he wake again.

Love stays a summer night,

Till lights of morning come ;

Then takes her winged flight

Back to her starry home.

Sleep ! Yet thy days are mine ;

Love’s seal is over thee :

Far though my ways from thine,

Dim though thy memory.

Love stays a summer night,

Till lights of morning come ;

Then takes her winged flight

Back to her starry home.

Ernest Christopher Dowson

#ernest dowson #ernest christopher dowson #moon maiden #vintage postcards #old postcards #early 20s #moon #maiden #lune #british literature #poetry #english poetry #victorian era #british poetry #poet #poète #poème #poem

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anneliakk · 5 days

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𝚀𝚞𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗, "𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎."

#dark academic aesthetic #dark academia #gothic #goth aesthetic #raven #edgar allan poe #english literature #literature #dark aesthetic #english poetry #poetry #poem #old english #darkness

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amicus-noctis · 7 months

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“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more” ― Lord Byron

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burningvelvet · 1 year

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“Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, / Take me to you, imprison me, for I, / Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, / Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.”

Excerpt from Holy Sonnets: Holy Sonnet XIV aka Batter my heart, three-person'd God (1633) by John Donne / Sculptures by Stephan Sinding at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek in Copenhagen; Tapmak [Adoration] (1903) and Slaven [The Slave] (1878)

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feral-ballad · 2 years

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Florence Welch, from Useless Magic: Lyrics and Poetry; “Maybe it would be fun”

[Text ID: “I tell myself I’m not like that any more / At least I thought I was less savage / I try, I try, I try, I try, I try to do less damage.”]

#florence welch #girlhood #womanhood #rage #anger #excerpts #writings #literature #poetry #fragments #selections #words #quotes #lit #typography #poetry collection #english literature #english poetry

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journalsofanaesthete · 7 months

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Poets are the people who wanted to be a poem but life had different plans for them and they became the ones writing them.

#spilled truth #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #spilled feelings #spilled words #spilled poetry #spilled poem #word poetry #writers of tumblr #poetsandwriters #deadpoetsociety #english poetry #artists on tumblr #dishaa ke thoughts #writers and poets #dead poets society #spilled writing

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zindagi-se-darte-ho · 7 months

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I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.

— Sylvia Plath

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