‘Let my words be bright with animals’ – Susan Richardson
Let my verbs be studded with Glow Worms.
Let Painted Ladies flit from each vowel I sound.
Let my prose be overwritten with Purple Frogs.
Let Baboons moon at my proper nouns.
Let Flamingoes paddle in the shallows of my gossip.
Let Clownfish swim in memories’ depths.
Let Satin Bower Birds use my blue language to decorate their nests.
Let Bonobos get personal with my pronouns.
Let Impalas graze the great plain of my tongue.
Whenever I sing, from the roof of my mouth let Orange Fruit Bats hang.
And at night, as darkness peaks, let a Two-toed Sloth creep upside-down through my mumbling canopy of sleep.
Let Wildebeest migrate with my yelling.
Let my softer speech be beached with Natterjack Toads.
Let Pygmy Hippos tinge my whispers.
Let my winter breath make Baiji-wraithes and Dodo-Wraithes
– Susan Richardson
Source: ‘Let my words be bright with animals’ – Plumwood Mountain
A truly good book teaches me better than to read it. I must soon lay it down, and commence living on its hint. What I began by reading, I must finish by acting.
— Henry David Thoreau
“I live in two unique worlds, traveling between both with just the opening or closing of my eyes.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich
Fernand Khnopff – Sphinx
Childhood is that state which ends the moment a puddle is first viewed as an obstacle instead of an opportunity
MICHAEL K WILLIAMS
Shirley Baker 1964
After the Rain, 1930’s, Pál Kaczur
Every step we take on earth
brings us to a new world.
FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA
“As for me, I feel myself living and thinking in a room where everything is the creation and the language of lives profoundly different from mine, of a taste opposite to mine, where I find nothing of my conscious thought, where my imagination is excited by feeling itself plunged into the depths of the non-ego; I feel happy only when setting foot—on the Avenue de la Gare, on the Port, or on the Place de l’Eglise—in one of those provincial hotels with cold, long corridors where the wind from outside contends successfully with the efforts of the heating system, where the detailed geographic map of the district is still the sole ornament on the walls, where each noise helps only to make the silence appear by displacing it, where the rooms keep a musty perfume which the open air comes to wash, but does not eliminate, and which the nostrils inhale a hundred times in order to bring it to the imagination, which is enchanted with it, which has it pose like a model to try to recreate it with all the thoughts and remembrances that it contains…”
― Marcel Proust
image: James Hart Dyke