(Reblogged from artpropelled)
(Reblogged from artpropelled)

in the studio today, dreaming of red boats, april 2, 2014

jennifer coyne qudeen

When the night wind makes the pine trees creak

And the pale clouds glide across the dark sky,

Go out my child, go out and seek

Your soul: The Eternal I.
For all the grasses rustling at your feet

And every flaming star that glitters high

Above you, close up and meet

In you: The Eternal I.
Yes, my child, go out into the world; walk slow

And silent, comprehending all, and by and by

Your soul, the Universe, will know

Itself: the Eternal I.

Jane Goodall

Jane Goodall

D-24.Mar.2000painting, collage on Gampi paper林孝彦 HAYASHI Takahiko 2000


painting, collage on Gampi paper
林孝彦 HAYASHI Takahiko 2000

(Reblogged from takahikohayashi)

firedfly :

しょ に
ね を はっ て


firedfly :

しょ に

ね を はっ て

(Source: puresthell)

(Reblogged from workman)

It turns out, what we thought of as the soul
is mostly sound;
not song, but like a memory of birds
or running water,
the churn of a paddle, the flicker and dip
of an oar,
narrow boats butting the land
on the quiet tethers,

so death will be a slower, surer fade
than any we imagine;
no mere extinction, like the evening’s hush
before the ducks come, dipping to the marsh
in threes and fours, to find the darker ground,
no moment’s pause, but absolute decay
where absence is a form
of generation.

John Burnside, from “section V La Brière of Saint-Nazaire” in Gift Songs (Jonathan Cape Poetry, 2007)

(Source: apoetreflects)

(Reblogged from leslieavonmiller)
(Reblogged from artpropelled)
(Reblogged from browndresswithwhitedots)
(Reblogged from browndresswithwhitedots)