1. gradientlair:

    Maya Angelou (April 4, 1928-May 28, 2014). Dancer. Singer. Poet. Author. Speaker. Educator. Creative. Inspirer. Mother. Black woman. Beautiful. She means so much to me. Everything. May she rest in peace. 

    "My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style."

    Reblogged from: womenwhokickass
  2. nypl:

"I always knew from that moment, from the time I found myself at home in that little segregated library in the South, all the way up until I walked up the steps of the New York City library, I always felt, in any town, if I can get to a library, I’ll be OK. It really helped me as a child, and that never left me. So I have a special place for every library, in my heart of hearts."
— RIP Maya Angelou, a literary legend and longtime supporter of The New York Public Library, which holds her papers at its Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture (where she spoke). Angelou also once discussed her love of libraries with us - take a look. 

    nypl:

    "I always knew from that moment, from the time I found myself at home in that little segregated library in the South, all the way up until I walked up the steps of the New York City library, I always felt, in any town, if I can get to a library, I’ll be OK. It really helped me as a child, and that never left me. So I have a special place for every library, in my heart of hearts."

    — RIP Maya Angelou, a literary legend and longtime supporter of The New York Public Library, which holds her papers at its Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture (where she spoke). Angelou also once discussed her love of libraries with us - take a look

    Reblogged from: nypl
  3. There is new evidence showing [Pablo Neruda] was likely murdered by agents of dictator Augusto Pinochet.
    Reblogged from: millionsmillions
  4. millionsmillions:

RIP Adrienne Rich
    Reblogged from: millionsmillions
  5. millionsmillions:

    fsgbooks:

    Former U.S. Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky reads Elizabeth Bishop’s “At the Fishhouses.” 

    Also known as How to Read a Poem Aloud.

    Reblogged from: millionsmillions
  6. I am in need of music that would flow
    Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
    Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
    With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
    Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
    Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
    A song to fall like water on my head,
    And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

    There is a magic made by melody:
    A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
    Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
    To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
    And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
    Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

    One of my absolute favorite poems. Bishop’s birthday was yesterday, so I’m a day late, whatever.

  7. mhsteger:

Elizabeth Bishop (born 8 February, 1911; died 6 October, 1979), pictured above in a photograph from the 1970s by Alice Helen Methfessel
Sonnet of Intimacy

(after Vinicius de Moraes)

Farm afternoons, there’s much too much blue air.I go out sometimes, follow the pasture track,Chewing a blade of sticky grass, chest bare,In threadbare pajamas of three summers back, To the little rivulets in the river-bedFor a drink of water, cold and musical,And if I spot in the brush a glow of red,A raspberry, spit its blood at the corral. The smell of cow manure is delicious.The cattle look at me unenviouslyAnd when there comes a sudden stream and hissAccompanied by a look not unmalicious,All of us, animals, unemotionallyPartake together of a pleasant piss.

    mhsteger:

    Elizabeth Bishop (born 8 February, 1911; died 6 October, 1979), pictured above in a photograph from the 1970s by Alice Helen Methfessel

    Sonnet of Intimacy

    (after Vinicius de Moraes)

    Farm afternoons, there’s much too much blue air.
    I go out sometimes, follow the pasture track,
    Chewing a blade of sticky grass, chest bare,
    In threadbare pajamas of three summers back,
     
    To the little rivulets in the river-bed
    For a drink of water, cold and musical,
    And if I spot in the brush a glow of red,
    A raspberry, spit its blood at the corral.
     
    The smell of cow manure is delicious.
    The cattle look at me unenviously
    And when there comes a sudden stream and hiss

    Accompanied by a look not unmalicious,
    All of us, animals, unemotionally
    Partake together of a pleasant piss.

    Reblogged from: mhsteger
  8. I thought, on the train, how utterly we have forsaken the Earth, in the sense of excluding it from our thoughts. There are but few who consider its physical hugeness, its rough enormity. It is still a disparate monstrosity, full of solitudes & barrens & wilds. It still dwarfs & terrifies & crushes. The rivers still roar, the mountains still crash, the winds still shatter. Man is an affair of cities. His gardens & orchards & fields are mere scrapings. Somehow, however, he has managed to shut out the face of the giant from his windows. But the giant is there, nevertheless.
    Wallace Stevens, in a 1904 note. (via washingtonpoststyle)
    Reblogged from: washingtonpoststyle
  9. After a black day, I play Haydn,
and feel a little warmth in my hands.
The keys are ready. Kind hammers fall.
The sound is spirited, green, and full of silence.
The sound says that freedom exists
and someone pays no tax to Caesar.
I shove my hands in my haydnpockets
and act like a man who is calm about it all.
I raise my haydnflag. The signal is:
“We do not surrender. But want peace.”
The music is a house of glass standing on a slope;
rocks are flying, rocks are rolling.
The rocks roll straight through the house
but every pane of glass is still whole.
- “Allegro,” by Tomas Transtromer, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature today. Poem translated by Goran Malmqvist.
[via npr]

    After a black day, I play Haydn,

    and feel a little warmth in my hands.

    The keys are ready. Kind hammers fall.

    The sound is spirited, green, and full of silence.

    The sound says that freedom exists

    and someone pays no tax to Caesar.

    I shove my hands in my haydnpockets

    and act like a man who is calm about it all.

    I raise my haydnflag. The signal is:

    “We do not surrender. But want peace.”

    The music is a house of glass standing on a slope;

    rocks are flying, rocks are rolling.

    The rocks roll straight through the house

    but every pane of glass is still whole.

    - “Allegro,” by Tomas Transtromer, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature today. Poem translated by Goran Malmqvist.

    [via npr]

    Reblogged from: npr
  10. harkavagrantfeed:

Hark, a Vagrant: Shelley and Byron
    Reblogged from: harkavagrantfeed
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