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*19
zaehle-mich-zu-den-mandeln:

Agave by Imogen Cunningham

The Seven Phallic Poems by Rainer Maria Rilke, 1915
I

The rose-gatherer grasps suddenly
The full bud of his vitality,

And, at fright at the difference,
The gentle garden within her shrinks.

 
II

Summer, which you so suddenly are, you’re
Drawing my seed up into an abrupt tree.

(Inner spaciousness, feel in yourself the lee
Of night in which it is mature.)

Now to the firmament it rose and grew,
A mirror-image resembling a tree.

O fell it, that, having turned unerringly
In your womb, it knows the counter-haven anew,

In which it really towers and really races.
Daring landscape, such as an inner-seer

Beholds in a crystal ball. That innerness here
In which the being-outside of stars chases.

There dawns death which shines outside like night.
And there, joined with all futures,

Are all who once were, the finite,
Crowds crowded round crowds for sure,

As the angel intends it outright.
 

III
We close a circle by means of our gazes,

And in it the tangled tension fuses white.
Already your unwitting command raises

The column in my genital-woodsite.
Granted by you, the image of the god stands

At the gentle crossroads under my clothes;
My whole body is named after him. We both

Matter like a province in his magic lands.
Yet yours is to be grove and heaven around

The Hermean pillar. Yield. Thereby freedom
For the god along with his hounds,

Withrawn from the delightfully ravaged column.
 

IV
You don’t know towers, with your diffidence.

Yet now you’ll become aware
Of a tower in that wonderful rare

Space in you. Hide your countenance.
You’ve erected it unsuspectingly,

By turn and glance and indirection,
And I, blissful one, am allowed entry.

Ah, how in there I am so tight.
Coax me to come forth to the summit:

So as to fling into your soft night,
With the soaring of a womb-dazzling rocket,

More feeling than I am quite.
 

V
How the too ample space has weakened you and me.

Superfluity recollects itself suddenly.
Now wormwood and absinthe trickle through silent

Sieves of kisses of bitter essence.
How much we are – from my body

A new tree raises its abundant crown
And mounts toward you: but what’s it to be

Without the summer which hovers in your womb.
Are you, am I, the one each so greatly delights?

Who can say, while we dwindle. Perhaps a column
Of rapture stands in the chamber room,

Sustains the vault, and more slowly subsides.
 

VI
To what are we near? To death, or that display

Which is not yet? For what would be clay to clay
Had not the god feelingly formed the figure

Which grows between us. But understand for sure:
This is my body which is resurrected.

Now gently deliver it from the burning grave
Into that heaven which in you I crave:

That from it survival be boldly effected.
You young place of ascension deep.

You dark breeze of summery pollen.
When its thousand spirits romp madly all in

You, my stiff corpse again grows soft asleep.
 

VII
How I called you. This is the mute call

Which within me has grown sweet awhile.
Now step after step into you I thrust all

And my semen climbs gladly like a child.
You primal peak of pleasure: suddenly well-nigh

Breathless it leaps to your inner ridge.
O surrender yourself to feeling its pilgrimage;

For you’ll be hurled down when it waves on high.
 

zaehle-mich-zu-den-mandeln:

Agave by Imogen Cunningham

The Seven Phallic Poems by Rainer Maria Rilke, 1915
I
The rose-gatherer grasps suddenly
The full bud of his vitality,
And, at fright at the difference,
The gentle garden within her shrinks.

 
II
Summer, which you so suddenly are, you’re
Drawing my seed up into an abrupt tree.
(Inner spaciousness, feel in yourself the lee
Of night in which it is mature.)
Now to the firmament it rose and grew,
A mirror-image resembling a tree.

O fell it, that, having turned unerringly
In your womb, it knows the counter-haven anew,
In which it really towers and really races.
Daring landscape, such as an inner-seer
Beholds in a crystal ball. That innerness here
In which the being-outside of stars chases.
There dawns death which shines outside like night.
And there, joined with all futures,

Are all who once were, the finite,
Crowds crowded round crowds for sure,
As the angel intends it outright.
 
III
We close a circle by means of our gazes,
And in it the tangled tension fuses white.
Already your unwitting command raises

The column in my genital-woodsite.
Granted by you, the image of the god stands
At the gentle crossroads under my clothes;
My whole body is named after him. We both
Matter like a province in his magic lands.
Yet yours is to be grove and heaven around
The Hermean pillar. Yield. Thereby freedom
For the god along with his hounds,

Withrawn from the delightfully ravaged column.
 
IV
You don’t know towers, with your diffidence.
Yet now you’ll become aware
Of a tower in that wonderful rare
Space in you. Hide your countenance.
You’ve erected it unsuspectingly,

By turn and glance and indirection,
And I, blissful one, am allowed entry.
Ah, how in there I am so tight.
Coax me to come forth to the summit:
So as to fling into your soft night,
With the soaring of a womb-dazzling rocket,
More feeling than I am quite.
 

V
How the too ample space has weakened you and me.
Superfluity recollects itself suddenly.
Now wormwood and absinthe trickle through silent
Sieves of kisses of bitter essence.
How much we are – from my body
A new tree raises its abundant crown
And mounts toward you: but what’s it to be

Without the summer which hovers in your womb.
Are you, am I, the one each so greatly delights?
Who can say, while we dwindle. Perhaps a column
Of rapture stands in the chamber room,
Sustains the vault, and more slowly subsides.
 
VI
To what are we near? To death, or that display

Which is not yet? For what would be clay to clay
Had not the god feelingly formed the figure
Which grows between us. But understand for sure:
This is my body which is resurrected.
Now gently deliver it from the burning grave
Into that heaven which in you I crave:
That from it survival be boldly effected.
You young place of ascension deep.

You dark breeze of summery pollen.
When its thousand spirits romp madly all in
You, my stiff corpse again grows soft asleep.
 
VII
How I called you. This is the mute call
Which within me has grown sweet awhile.
Now step after step into you I thrust all

And my semen climbs gladly like a child.
You primal peak of pleasure: suddenly well-nigh
Breathless it leaps to your inner ridge.
O surrender yourself to feeling its pilgrimage;
For you’ll be hurled down when it waves on high.
 

(Source: aneleh)

"The whole culture is telling you to hurry, while the art tells you to take your time. Always listen to the art."

Junot Diaz   (via thearspoetica)

(Source: toastyflannel, via aneleh)

*5
aneleh:

Ernesto Díaz Brenes

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud and your form and colour are the way I love them. You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips and in your life my infinite dreams live.
The lamp of my soul dyes your feet, the sour wine is sweeter on your lips, oh reaper of my evening song, how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!

You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon’s wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice. Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.
You are taken in the net of my music, my love, and my nets of music are wide as the sky. My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning. In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin. - Pablo Neruda

aneleh:

Ernesto Díaz Brenes

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud and your form and colour are the way I love them. You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips and in your life my infinite dreams live.

The lamp of my soul dyes your feet, the sour wine is sweeter on your lips, oh reaper of my evening song, how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!

You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon’s wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice. Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.

You are taken in the net of my music, my love, and my nets of music are wide as the sky. My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning. In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.

- Pablo Neruda

"Don’t believe every thing you think."

Byron Katie (via thecalminside)

(Source: brianyru, via thecalminside)

"I would like my life to be a statement of love and compassion—and where it isn’t, that’s where my work lies."

Ram Dass (via thecalminside)

"Is it splendid, or stupid, to take life seriously?"

Gustave Flaubert  (via zaehle-mich-zu-den-mandeln)

(Source: human-voices, via zaehle-mich-zu-den-mandeln)

"You are not matter but movement, you float unceasingly."

The Rite (1969) dir. by Ingmar Bergman   (via zaehle-mich-zu-den-mandeln)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via zaehle-mich-zu-den-mandeln)

aseaofquotes:

Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

aseaofquotes:

Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

(Source: jansufranca)