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@roseteagreen / roseteagreen.tumblr.com

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April Fool’s Day is in a few days, and I just wanted to make this clear. This blog is safe, and I can promise you no screamers, nothing emotionally abusive, no fake posts, and nothing to intentionally trigger dissociation. You are safe here.

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chaoticaindica-deactivated20230

I.

Winter? Spring? Who knows?

White buds from the plumtrees wing

And mingle with the snows.

No blue skies these flowers bring,

Yet their fragrance augurs Spring.

II.

Oh, were the white waves,

Far on the glimmering sea

That the moonshine laves,

Dream flowers drifting to me,—

I would cull them, love, for thee.

III.

Moon, somnolent, white,

Mirrored in a waveless sea,

What fickle mood of night

Urged thee from heaven to flee

And live in the dawnlit sea?

IV.

Like mist on the leas,

Fall gently, oh rain of Spring

On the orange trees

That to Ume's casement cling—

Perchance, she'll hear the love-bird sing.

V.

Though love has grown cold

The woods are bright with flowers,

Why not as of old

Go to the wildwood bowers

And dream of--bygone hours!

VI.

Tell, what name beseems

These vain and wandering days!

Like the bark of dreams

That from souls at daybreak strays

They are lost on trackless ways.

- Sadakichi Hartmann

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trying to take someone’s daughter to look at some beautiful flowers this spring

Thinking about the fact that we keep sending poetry into space. A Maya Angelou poem recently, and all those haiku, and the Bergin poem in 1961, that’s supposed to keep orbiting the Earth for centuries. But I tried explaining poetry to aliens in my head and it wasn’t easy.

You’d need to start with literature, music, and visual arts, so then you can say poetry is at the crossroads, and that we get there by giving some words the opportunity to hang out with other words they don’t often get to play with. If we carefully pick and position words, our poem can (according to T.S. Eliot) communicate something even before it is understood. Now this really upsets the aliens and their hard-won understanding of human communication and how it works. You can vex them further by telling them about prose poetry, which looks like a normal text yet feels like a poem. Even though it has no line breaks—aliens don’t know about line breaks. We like to count syllables until they reach a pleasant number, then kick the rest of the sentence downstairs and it sounds prettier. Yes, really! Except free verse which is poetry that’s surprised by its own line breaks. It can still sound really pretty but it’s even harder to explain why… Carl Sandburg said a poem is an echo asking a shadow for a dance. The aliens are like “That’s—an unexpected string of words. Though the imagery is lovely.” The aliens are so close to getting it.

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wlw moodboard: The Sun and Moon Rendezvous

The Moon sighed in appreciation as fingertips tentatively touched. “I behold you, so I am beholden to you - my gilded eye through which I see.” “My silver accomplice…” her tenderness trailed into a grin. “So serious,” she teased. “That I have found another to burn as deeply as I-” And thus the arms of the sun possessed the back of the moon, great eclipse found in their lips’ union.  A crescent smirk, “So even the Sun, in all her omniscience, must know the dark side of the moon.”

sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6

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