(via paranormalghost dot com)


   "The Lilacs

Those laden lilacs
         at the lawn's end
Came stark, spindly,
         and in staggered file,
Like walking wounded
         from the dead of winter.
We watched them waken
         in the brusque weather
To rot and rootbreak,
         to ripped branches,
and saw them shiver
         as the memory swept them
Of night and numbness
         and the taste of nothing.
Out of present pain
         and from past terror
Their bullet-shaped buds
         came quick and bursting,
As if they aimed
         to be open with us!
But the sun suddenly
         settled about them,
And green and grateful
         the lilacs grew,
Healed in that hush,
         that hospital quiet.
These lacquered leaves
         where the light paddles
And the big blooms
         buzzing among them
Have kept their counsel,
         conveying nothing
Of their mortal message,
         unless one should measure
The depth and dumbness
         of death's kingdom
By the pure power
         of this perfume."

--Richard Wilbur, Waking to Sl**p: N*w Po*ms and Translations (1969)


Compr*h*nsiv* Aramaic L*xicon.


"So what would it mean to teach writing? You could teach a serviceable style, one that was pretty much like that of the journals the student wanted to publish in. Or you could have the student construct a style, learn about how to put together a unique style. Or you could be a style agnostic, like I am."


Do try this odd music.

Hygg* & lort. (via Cat*rina)