September 21, 2014 at 5:50pm
12 notes
Reblogged from electric-cereal
electric-cereal:

My life has never been a bird bleeding pollen from its wingsby David Meza
My girl, the superheroes have started dreaming of their headstones. They now write poems in their coffins.
Poetry is how you throw rocks at that special cloud where God sits.
I remember my childhood. I would go up to the edge of the river so the water would wet my shadow.
I was happy. My mother was a bird of pollen. I was a bird of pollen. One day I got it into my head to pick at my thoughts and pulled out of my left eye like the tail of a comet my memory.
I remember my childhood. It was necessary to get home early, because the night would soon bloom like a rose of vampire bats. I searched for my secret parents in the hearts of trees. I tried to speak to the rocks and to rewrite the course of the rivers, but the adults told me it was impossible.
I was born like a wounded flower that rises from the snow. I wandered the world like a ghost ship. I built a cemetery with my father for the birds of pollen that kept falling from the sky. The men stood up on top of cars and started to dance and to scratch their own faces.
I am beginning to think that the alphabet is no more than a secret code to return the planet to where we came from. I write on the curtains of my room the destruction of the world.
I am full of fear. A fear that wears a crown of stars. Three days ago I dreamt that my mother was sewing up my mouth. I don’t recognize myself. I look in the mirror and find an angel stripping the world bare. I have the terrible desire to scream my name.

I am a woman made of 500 birds inside. I have no memories of my hometown. I am dreaming myself up. I have no memories of my childhood. I am dreaming myself up. My life never was. I have discovered that poetry is a canvas that is painted without using paintbrushes, a dance that is performed without using a body, a kiss that is given without using lips. I have discovered that poetry is a game in which it is prohibited to follow the rules; that it’s an understanding that our chests are full of moss, of snow, of water, of earth and of seeds that flower like suns; that poetry is a flock of birds tearing up the body from the inside out; that poetry is speaking with the pigeons on the roofs of cathedrals.
I will be born. I will grow up. I will learn to fly. And then I will shatter my beak from hitting it against the rocks so many times.
The tree stays still and dissolves our nostalgia. The kids with auburn hair grab a fistful of grass, hold it up, and stare. The window looks back and winks at you, smashes your hands, reader, and your proletariat heart bleeds. The fountain overflows, touches my ankles. The ball floats and dreams of me as a crazy woman who writes and dances on a wall. I also stay still and watch how a butterfly comes to a complete rest in my hands.
Whoever hides from the rain, spreads illness; whoever takes joy in it, is bathed.
I want the death of Mexico to be beautiful
I want her death to be a gorgeous and inexplicable act
like the birds
For my name to be life
I want artists to throw their work into the seas and
to begin writing over their own bodies
Words, every word has fallen through me into a clay pot. I think of the world. And the world thinks of me. And then it looks at itself through my eyes and it feels a beautiful yearning to cut itself. I am in front of a tower, from which a man launches microhistories at me in the form of histories written in the blood of dawn. The world thinks of me and watches how I throw a clay pot at the floor. In that clay pot, it thinks, was the divine plexus of grammar. It looks at me. It opens up my chest with its starry hands, and cries. I run and hide in the hollow of a tree. The world thinks of me and in those other cells of cancer that kiss its life. The man comes down from the tower and tells me things about fiction that I do not understand. I am going to gather up flowers from Gaby’s interior, because it is the only place where I can truly think of the world. I launch myself at the interior of a comic strip and see how Whitman dissolves into butterflies. I launch myself at the world, and I feel a yearning to cut myself.
Words are seeds, singing is sowing.
—
Fragments from Vishnu’s Dream by David MezaTranslated from the Spanish by Luis Silva
You can also read a poem by Meza at The Scrambler translated by Jacob Steinberg with an introduction by Luna Miguel.

electric-cereal:

My life has never been a bird bleeding pollen from its wings
by David Meza

My girl, the superheroes have started dreaming of their headstones. They now write poems in their coffins.

Poetry is how you throw rocks at that special cloud where God sits.

I remember my childhood. I would go up to the edge of the river so the water would wet my shadow.

I was happy. My mother was a bird of pollen. I was a bird of pollen. One day I got it into my head to pick at my thoughts and pulled out of my left eye like the tail of a comet my memory.

I remember my childhood. It was necessary to get home early, because the night would soon bloom like a rose of vampire bats. I searched for my secret parents in the hearts of trees. I tried to speak to the rocks and to rewrite the course of the rivers, but the adults told me it was impossible.

I was born like a wounded flower that rises from the snow. I wandered the world like a ghost ship. I built a cemetery with my father for the birds of pollen that kept falling from the sky. The men stood up on top of cars and started to dance and to scratch their own faces.

I am beginning to think that the alphabet is no more than a secret code to return the planet to where we came from. I write on the curtains of my room the destruction of the world.

I am full of fear. A fear that wears a crown of stars. Three days ago I dreamt that my mother was sewing up my mouth. I don’t recognize myself. I look in the mirror and find an angel stripping the world bare. I have the terrible desire to scream my name.

I am a woman made of 500 birds inside. I have no memories of my hometown. I am dreaming myself up. I have no memories of my childhood. I am dreaming myself up. My life never was. I have discovered that poetry is a canvas that is painted without using paintbrushes, a dance that is performed without using a body, a kiss that is given without using lips. I have discovered that poetry is a game in which it is prohibited to follow the rules; that it’s an understanding that our chests are full of moss, of snow, of water, of earth and of seeds that flower like suns; that poetry is a flock of birds tearing up the body from the inside out; that poetry is speaking with the pigeons on the roofs of cathedrals.

I will be born. I will grow up. I will learn to fly. And then I will shatter my beak from hitting it against the rocks so many times.

The tree stays still and dissolves our nostalgia. The kids with auburn hair grab a fistful of grass, hold it up, and stare. The window looks back and winks at you, smashes your hands, reader, and your proletariat heart bleeds. The fountain overflows, touches my ankles. The ball floats and dreams of me as a crazy woman who writes and dances on a wall. I also stay still and watch how a butterfly comes to a complete rest in my hands.

Whoever hides from the rain, spreads illness; whoever takes joy in it, is bathed.

I want the death of Mexico to be beautiful

I want her death to be a gorgeous and inexplicable act

like the birds

For my name to be life

I want artists to throw their work into the seas and

to begin writing over their own bodies

Words, every word has fallen through me into a clay pot. I think of the world. And the world thinks of me. And then it looks at itself through my eyes and it feels a beautiful yearning to cut itself. I am in front of a tower, from which a man launches microhistories at me in the form of histories written in the blood of dawn. The world thinks of me and watches how I throw a clay pot at the floor. In that clay pot, it thinks, was the divine plexus of grammar. It looks at me. It opens up my chest with its starry hands, and cries. I run and hide in the hollow of a tree. The world thinks of me and in those other cells of cancer that kiss its life. The man comes down from the tower and tells me things about fiction that I do not understand. I am going to gather up flowers from Gaby’s interior, because it is the only place where I can truly think of the world. I launch myself at the interior of a comic strip and see how Whitman dissolves into butterflies. I launch myself at the world, and I feel a yearning to cut myself.

Words are seeds, singing is sowing.

Fragments from Vishnu’s Dream by David Meza
Translated from the Spanish by Luis Silva

You can also read a poem by Meza at The Scrambler translated by Jacob Steinberg with an introduction by Luna Miguel.

(via dreamingyearning)

5:45pm
23 notes
Reblogged from popserial

(Source: popserial, via dreamingyearning)

5:44pm
17 notes
Reblogged from dreamingyearning

sept 13 2014 →

dreamingyearning:

image

image

image

it is sept 13 2014

laying in bed i can hear the football game
the announcer’s voice is a deflated kickball
that rolls lopsided through my window
he sounds phony and sad
but idk i could jus be projecting u kno

i will drown both of our…

5:43pm
2,346 notes
Reblogged from theartofanimation

theartofanimation:

Daniel Danger

5:37pm
119 notes
Reblogged from whoeverswinning

lost in the geography of a memory and a dark rose
I prowl the narrow streets around you
while you too you prowl other greater streets
around something

— Tristan Tzara (via whoeverswinning)

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

5:37pm
2,520 notes
Reblogged from allisonburtch

The problem is no longer getting people to express themselves, but providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don’t stop people from expressing themselves, but rather, force them to express themselves. What a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, or ever rarer, the thing that might be worth saying.

— Gilles Deleuze, “Mediators” (via allisonburtch)

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

5:26pm
281 notes
Reblogged from blackfashion
blackfashion:

"Are you ready…to put your cemetery clothes on. I don’t want [it] to be the norm for everybody but you ought to know you’re taking a chance… It’s like that, that’s how serious it is. The connection between unarmed truth and unapologetic love. They go hand in hand. So the condition of truth is to allow suffering to speak. And justice is what love looks like in public. Just like tenderness is what love looks like in private. Then you are going to have to spiritually fortify yourself… if you are going to be part of this same tradition that’s rooted in telling the truth." - Dr. Cornel West at Howard University 
Jordan Shanks
JordanShanksDC on IG

blackfashion:

"Are you ready…to put your cemetery clothes on. I don’t want [it] to be the norm for everybody but you ought to know you’re taking a chance… It’s like that, that’s how serious it is. The connection between unarmed truth and unapologetic love. They go hand in hand. So the condition of truth is to allow suffering to speak. And justice is what love looks like in public. Just like tenderness is what love looks like in private. Then you are going to have to spiritually fortify yourself… if you are going to be part of this same tradition that’s rooted in telling the truth." - Dr. Cornel West at Howard University 

Jordan Shanks

JordanShanksDC on IG

3:10am
1,034 notes
Reblogged from artchipel

artchipel:

Karolina Zglobicka | on Tumblr - Oil On Canvas

Redox (2014)
Winterland (2013)
I Was There, On This Photograph (2013)
Orange Lining (2014)

3:10am
1,064 notes
Reblogged from artchipel

artchipel:

Artist on Tumblr

Karolina Zglobicka | on Tumblr (UK) - Oil On Canvas

Karolina Zglobicka’s work explores the balance between meaning and explanation, vision and gesture, word and unspoken thought. She seeks to express that which is missed in everyday translation. Ambiguities, shadows, hidden pieces of reality, are all explored through use of reflections, distorted perspectives, and repetitive motifs. Collaging layers of colour and shape, marks and movements, past and future, and transforming the way she sees and interprets paint as a medium, Zglobicka seeks to create worlds from recontextualised emotive and visual associations.

© All images courtesy of the artist

[more Karolina Zglobicka]

September 18, 2014 at 10:20pm
3,219 notes
Reblogged from c-isnenegro

(via howitzerliterarysociety)