#poetic

When that part of the woman meets with a man, all the flowers in the world suddenly bloom! All the birds of the world gather together and sing. The entire world turns golden, and your body becomes completely relaxed and you're not sure whether you're floating on clouds of feathers. The universe comes alive, like fireworks in the night. ↗

— Kim Dong Hwa

#poetic #sex #love

It was like I’d stepped out into an afterlife. Only there were no angels. ↗

— Lucy Christopher

#afterlife

And now, my poor old woman, why are you crying so bitterly? It is autumn. The leaves are falling from the trees like burning tears- the wind howls. Why must you mimic them? ↗

— Mervyn Peake

#copy #cry #crying #despair #fall

I write the word solitude on my wall and then below it: Do you know me at all? Are my words just air? Is my heart easy to spare? ↗

— Jessica Sorensen

#death

If money isn't everything, why do we toss coins into wishing wells? ↗

— Jaf Liethers

#money #poem #poetic #quote #wealth

The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme. ↗

— Stephane Mallarme

#consists #equal #grouping #idea #into

A tattoo is a true poetic creation, and is always more than meets the eye. As a tattoo is grounded on living skin, so its essence emotes a poignancy unique to the mortal human condition. ↗

— V. Vale

#body #confidence #creation #creative #emotion

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