"[E]xcept for writing..."

"Nothing is as surprising as life. Except for writing.
Except for writing. Yes, of course, except for writing,
the only consolation."

Orhan Pamuk (The Black Book)

She moved through the fair

- Traditional Irish folk song,

My young love said to me, 
My mother won’t mind, 
And my father won’t slight you, 
For your lack of kine.
And she laid her hand on me,
And this she did say:
It will not be long, Love,
Till our wedding day.

As she stepped away from me,
And she moved through the fair,
And fondly I watched her,
Move here and move there.
And then she made her way homeward,
With one star awake,
As the swan in the evening, 
Moved over the lake.

The people were saying,
No two e’er were wed,
But one had a sorrow,
That never was said.
And I smiled as she passed,
With her goods and her gear,
And that was the last,
That I saw of my dear.

Last night she came to me,
My dead love came in.
So softly she came,
That her feet made no din.
As she laid her hand on me,
And this she did say:
It will not be long, love,
‘Til our wedding day.

Hasten, maidens, hasten away!

by Sarojini Naidu

A kokila called from a henna-spray:
Lira! liree! Lira! liree!
Hasten, maidens, hasten away
To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.

Send your pitchers afloat on the tide,
Gather the leaves ere the dawn be old,
Grind them in mortars of amber and gold,
The fresh green leaves of the henna-tree.

A kokila called from a henna-spray:
Lira! liree! Lira! liree!
Hasten maidens, hasten away
To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.

The tilka’s red for the brow of a bride,
And betel-nut’s red for lips that are sweet;
But, for lily-like fingers and feet,
The red, the red of the henna-tree.

The first thing I learned at school was that some people are idiots; the second thing I learned was that some are even worse.

—“Istanbul: Memories and the City” by Orhan Pamuk

The Kingdom

By Jesca Hoop

All of the fallen on the ground
Hollarin ground
I lay down a shrine and I
Come with the autumn
To tear it down
Orange and brown
And I lay a soft down

For all are waiting
All in line
Brethren bathin’
Bones in brine
Separate your light from lime
Our mortal bind

Under the spell of full November moon
Light on the broom
Frost in my room
In through the window
Came a ghost I knew

She paid me a visit while I was in my bed
Sleepy she said
Sleep as though dead
For in the morning you are called
Is what she said

To the high desert
War is raging
You must go to the battlefield
And follow the cry of men rampaging
And gather the ones that won’t heal

Down through a cloud of smoke to the promise land
Many are dead
River runs red
“For my god and for my king” is what he said

I came to my knees with my lips to his ear
My hand to his chest
his wounded breast
For my god and for my king I will not rest

But in the high desert
You are dying
For your god and his ghost and the son
Do not hold to the earth on which you are lying
For the kingdom can never be won

All of the fallen under ground
Hollarin ground
I lay down a shrine and i
Come with the autumn to
Tear it down
Orange and brown
And I lay a soft down

For all are waiting
All in line
Brethren bathing bones in brine
Separate your light from lime
Let go of the earth

(Source: )

theweekmagazine:

The London riots may be the most violent in recent memory, but the city has a long and rocky history of upheaval. Here, a look back at some of London’s other newsworthy clashes…

bookmania: “From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood. There was poetry for quiet companionship. There was adventure when she tired of quiet hours. There would be love stories when she came into adolescence and when she wanted to feel a closeness to someone she could read a biography. On that day when she first knew she could read, she made a vow to read one book a day as long as she lived.” — Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (photo by thericerocket26)

bookmania:

“From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood. There was poetry for quiet companionship. There was adventure when she tired of quiet hours. There would be love stories when she came into adolescence and when she wanted to feel a closeness to someone she could read a biography. On that day when she first knew she could read, she made a vow to read one book a day as long as she lived.” — Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

(photo by thericerocket26)

(via bookmania)

A letter doesn’t communicate by words alone. A letter, just like a book, can be read by smelling it, touching it and fondling it. Thereby, intelligent folk will say, ‘Go on then, read what the letter tells you!’ whereas the dull-witted will say, ‘Go on then, read what he’s written!

—Orhan Pamuk (My Name Is Red)