#poetic

Four wings, two hearts, but only one soul. They connect in the middle, but are separated by a thin line of ash. Its what brings them together, yet rips their feathers apart. They can never truly be together as light and dark. Unless one makes the ultimate sacrifice. Blows out their candle, and joins the other in the dark. Or if the other dares to fly across the line and steals the others light And force them to cross over the line and join the darkness of life. Im not gone, princess. I will come back for you until you give in. ↗

— Jessica Sorensen

#death

The hands that felled trees also cut umbilical cords; the hands that wrung the necks of chickens and butchered hogs also nudged African violets into bloom; the arms that loaded sheaves, bales, and sacks rocked babies into sleep. They patted biscuits into flaky ovals of innocence- and shrouded the dead. They plowed all day and came home to nestle like plums under the limbs of their men. The legs that straddled a mule's back were the same ones that straddled their men's hips. And the difference was all the difference there was. ↗

— Toni Morrison The Bluest Eye

#home

The genuine artist, Harris is saying, finds reality in a point of identity between subject and object, a point at which the created world and the world that is really there become the same thing. [p.211] ↗

— Northrop Frye

#literary-theory #poetics #imagination

I feel unburdened, and after a while I start to imagine that the divan is a boat moving over the ocean. Sunken cities play music beneath the waves. The ghosts are stirring. ↗

— Lauren DeStefano

#imagination

...she could not think of what had happened to her that day, or of what might happen that night. Instead, she watched the lamplighters move along the avenues even as their celestial counterparts set the stars alight in the sky. The rain had washed the city clean, and the air was a confection of clematis and violets and peony. Music and light spilled out of so many grand houses that the two seemed at once ubiquitous and united, as if to play a note was to send forth a ray of illumination, and a quartet was enough to set the grandest halls aglitter. ↗

— Galen Beckett

#music

Far, far away something made a single ghostly howl, like a banshee in the dark. ↗

— Lucy Christopher

#poetic-fiction #nature

Poetry is one of the destinies of speech... One would say that the poetic image, in its newness, opens a future to language. ↗

— Gaston Bachelard

#future #image #language #newness #opens

I try for a poetic language that says, This is who we are, where we have been, where we are. This is where we must go. And this is what we must do. ↗

— Mari Evans

#go #i #language #must #poetic

A born poet knows in his cradle that a poetic life is the only life worth living. ↗

— James Broughton

#cradle #his #knows #life #living

When you are editing, the final master is Aristotle and his poetics. You might have a terrific episode, but if people are falling out because there are just too many elements in it, you have to begin to get rid of things. ↗

— Ken Burns

#because #begin #editing #elements #episode