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#foreign poetry
callmeprincesatonight · 5 days ago
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Art in motion
It’s absolutely breathtaking the works of mastery that humans are capable of. Creatives are the soul of this world.
5/7 from Loving Vincent (2017)
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alanzaveri · 15 days ago
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i think poetry is so interesting and so intrinsic to its original language because poetry is about the restructuring and exploration of language itself. when you write poetry you are not using words to tell a story but rather you are using the story as a framework to create words and patterns and new cities from the language that you already know
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ryuchairo · 15 days ago
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Lights, Camera, & Sound: Post-Cinema, a Movement, Genre or Neo-Paradigm?
Lights, Camera, & Sound: Post-Cinema, a Movement, Genre or Neo-Paradigm?
I was pondering a term to explicate the style of the existing cinema culture. Hence, whenever the term ‘Post-‘ is applied in art, music and film it usually refers to ‘after‘ or ‘in between periods.’ I am certain theorists – in this paradigm – are churning the preverbial engine to get their scholarly journals, books, and symposium in circulation to render a clear definition of Post-Cinema. I…
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bostonpoetryslam · 16 days ago
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In revision I like to pressure a word to detonate its denotations: alarm, both an anxious awareness of danger and a kind of clock; also, alarm is a noun and a verb. So, to place the image of an alarm clock by the bed is to suggest an emotional alarm. Words can be as unstable as nitroglycerin.
Kimiko Hahn, “Nitro—More on Japanese Poetics,” from Foreign Bodies
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writelikefools2021 · 26 days ago
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You Can’t Make an Omelet without Breaking Some Eggs - Uncle Scooter - Day 18
I heard through the grapevine it’s always darkest before the dawn, but every dog has its day throwing caution to the wind, going on a wild goose chase, pulling someone’s leg, biting off more than you can chew by the skin of your teeth straight from the horse’s mouth. Getting a taste of your own medicine, tit for tat (turnabout is fair play), a snowball effect letting the cat out of the bag and killing two birds with one stone (don’t count your chickens before they hatch), adding insult to injury by beating a dead horse (you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink the last straw). Speak of the devil! The elephant in the room,
 playing devil’s advocate, going down in flames, burning bridges,
 like two peas in a pod getting a second wind to run like the wind. Head in the clouds, 
clouds on the horizon, weather the storm but feeling under the weather, caught between a rock and a hard place through thick and thin (no pain, no gain), but don’t judge a book by its cover, it’s a blessing in disguise! Letting someone off the hook is the icing on the cake,                a peice of cake,                giving the befenit of the dubot                at the dorp of a hat                is the bset of btoh woldrs,                for as you sow so slahl you raep

                         na papel a ydapseektehcotdoryawa…
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reckonslepoisson · a month ago
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Foreign Affairs, Tom Waits (1977)
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Some of Tom Waits’ weaker piano jazz tracks plus weary instrumental jazz equals one of his least interesting records. Still a great songwriter, though.
Pick: ‘Muriel’
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fancyconnoisseurkitty · 2 months ago
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I miss the aroma of the foreign spices,
The taste very foreign and new
I wish I knew how to cook these dishes by myself
So that, I could have it whenever I want wherever I want
Because I know I am not to be there forever in that foreign land
I have lived there long enough to know the streets like the back of my hand
I try to find those delishes back home
I think I am just the opposite of homesick
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aerltarg · 2 months ago
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Rhaegar was so bookish boy since very young age and very much likely was extra interested in Valyrian scrolls and such, so I have a really ancient headcanon of him speaking High Valyrian fluently.
But this noble ass was also known for writing songs (good ones actually) and I can't resist a picture of him writing one or maybe even a poem for Lyanna in Valyrian. If she wasn't interested in learning it herself, she would definitely end up understanding it mostly anyway, that's just how many pieces Rhaegar dedicated to her.
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theaestheticasshole · 4 months ago
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We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
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hearts-poetry · 4 months ago
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My lines are familiar to me
Seldom do I forget
The words I have written
I carry worlds within
The notebook of myself
Foreign to others
Foreign to me
Unsearchable poetry
With my fingers I trace
The shape of each handwritten letter
Trying to regroup and classify
Yet, I fail.
It must be
The Foreign Lands of myself
It must be
That I’ve travelled further
In my heart
Than my mind can grasp
So I resist the urge to settle
For a verbose home
And linger between
The Lines Unfamiliar.
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holywaterandblood · 4 months ago
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There are lottery tickets
Tacked to our bulletin board.
We never win but
He buys them anyways.
The house always smells of
Paprika and celery
Leeks, onions, garlic.
He’s always cooking but
We never eat the food.
* * *
He’s a good man but
He doesn’t understand
When you’ve spent your
Whole life running
From a country you
Never even knew
His memories
Will haunt you
As if they are your own.
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gatalnta · 4 months ago
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𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗    :     @elataan​   .  
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𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍      𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃      ‘𝐏𝐎𝐍      𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍      𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃      ;      𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴      𝘰𝘧      𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵      ,      𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘤      𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴       𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵      𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘢      .         doe - like       gaze      jar          &      petite      form      tentatively      rises       into      a      proper      seated      position      .   where       am       i       ?      she      knows      not      .      unconscious      beings      strew      beside      her      ,      queen      becoming      far      more      𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕥     at      the      sight      .      ❛❛        auro      ?      bruhna      ?        ❜❜      𝗻𝗼      𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲      ,          but      bloodied      chests      laboriously      rise      &      fall      with      passing      breaths      .      medical      kit      .      sarela      ,      her      head      spinning      ,      tentatively      veers       ‘bout      to      search      ,      but      gaze      stumbles      upon      unknown         .      why      she      had      not      sensed      his      presence      ,      𝗌𝗁𝖾     𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌      𝗇𝗈𝗍      𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽          .      (      perhaps      judgment      is      clouded      by      concern      .      )      swiftly      ,      albeit      a      painful      gesture      ,      sarela          reaches      for      her      pilot’s      blaster      ,      pointing      it      at      the      man      .      ❛❛         who      are      you      ?        ❜❜
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                          𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓  𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍      ❪   .  .  .  ❫       𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴     .
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talitalitalitalita · 5 months ago
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anarchotolkienist · 5 months ago
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The fact that the modern Highland Dress, with the fancy jacket and the specific clan tartan, is a victorian Highlandist invention does not mean that Gaels never wore kilts. I have no idea why this second idea is spread so often, including among scholars who ought to know better.
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Hello I know I barely use this account but here's my insta that you should totally follow: https://www.instagram.com/chekhov.and.chill/
(Or just search @chekhov.and.chill on insta)
I post about Russian literature in both Russian and English (all my posts are in both). So if you’re an English speaker trying to learn Russian, a Russian speaker trying to learn English, or just a literature fan, you should find this account useful and interesting! 
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torivikachu · 6 months ago
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so, this is totally inspired by SNS. too many of my recent poems are. but I can never get it right. nothing feels right! damn. this is frustrating.
one of us is bound to hurt the other,
our love is tragedy no less.
so I grip the handle of katana,
so you check how many bullets left,
so you're poised to counter every movement,
so I subtly lead you to the steep.
our lives were always so confluent
but somehow we cannot truly meet...
we attack, we breach, we draw our weapons,
blade to blade and always face to face,
but the only thing that truly matters
is the one we never will confess.
so I paint your neck with loving bruises,
so you scratch with passion on my hands,
caring steel is running straightly through us,
pinning us together in the end.
while our blood and feelings interflowing
count down our last and common breath,
whisper of the words we've never told brings
final smile to our joined lips.
and then we rest.
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