“Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.”
W.S. Merwin, “Separation”This is sad and lovely.
Reblogged from the root of the root
here we are
Hi. I'm Kaitlyn. I'm an English teacher. You'll see lots on that. I'm a newlywed. You'll see that, too. I often think I'm older than I am and funnier, too. You've been warned. Scroll down a bit to start reading, or a bit more to read more about me.
“
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
— Robert Frost, “Acquainted with the Night” (The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry, Norton, 2003)
Reblogged from simplicity duplicity
“
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
— e.e. cummings (via simplicityduplicity)
Reblogged from simplicity duplicity
“
People cannot stand the saddest truth I know about the very nature of reading and writing imaginative literature, which is that poetry does not teach us how to talk to other people: it teaches us how to talk to ourselves.
— Harold Bloom (via libraryland)
Reblogged from A Writer's Ruminations
Dear Malorie,
I run across an old photo
and see your smile.
As the tears well up,
I am suddenly filled with warmth
and my heart only remembers love.
I read a crumpled note
you passed back-when,
during a time of doubt and turmoil.
The calming words written then
still bring me peace
and sooth my spirit.
You always had
a knack for that.
I remember who you used to be
the laughter we shared
and wonder what you are now.
Maybe you are the bird outside my window
singing a good morning song,
or the ladybug that lights
so carelessly on my shoulder,
bringing luck for the day
or the safe feeling
that a warm bed offers
on a stormy night
or the lines of a song
that holds me together
when the day has been too much.
I miss your being
but I feel you everywhere,
in whichever form you take today,
whoever, whatever you now choose to be.
Now is not the time for goodbye.
I remember you.
You are there in my dreams.
You are here beside me
and I will not be afraid
of the days to come.
I wrote this for my literature class yesterday, but really, I wrote it for myself. I just needed to do something and get out in the open what I had to say. Miss you Mal.
Immigrate To Me
Once there were lines drawn
like dusty borders on rusty maps.
Where I begin
to where I end
laid out and measured, plotted and cut off.
Walls like mountains and fears like rivers
all kept me from you.
You the immigrant to a forbidden me,
the tired, the poor the huddled masses
straining to breathe us.
Crawling across those rivers and shivering
on those mountains.
I opened the gates
for immigrant you.
Across the border searched and seized
stamped and scared
frozen and wet you wandered into
me.
Those lines drawn
like dusty borders on crumpled maps
are blowing away.
Where I begin
to where I will end,
reshaping.
The immigrant in you
the migrant in me
how long will you stay?
Walls like mountains and fears
fears like deep rivers
and the rivers run inside me.
Inside and cutting you off
you the weary traveler
walked so far.
Cross them again.
Climb them again.
Come for me.
Again.
-Tyler Knott Gregson-
Reblogged from Tyler Knott
The soft flutter of
your kiss—my own personal
brand of Kryptonite.
—kaitlyn shaw
hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all
Emily Dickinson
(1/1)
About
This is me on a cute day. More often, I wear my hair in a loose bun and forget to put on makeup. I'm in my first year of teaching and marriage. My struggles at learning to do both of these jobs will probably make their way here. I love cupcakes, cardigans, and spy movies. Also, riding boots and ballet flats. Or just shoes, in general.
