"marianne" poems
Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals,
please come flying,
to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums
descending out of the mackerel sky
over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water,
please come flying.
Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing. The ships
are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags
rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing
countless little pellucid jellies
in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.
Please come flying.
Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe
trailing a sapphire highlight,
with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,
with heaven knows how many angels all riding
on the broad black brim of your hat,
please come flying.
Bearing a musical inaudible abacus,
a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons,
please come flying.
Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan
is all awash with morals this fine morning,
so please come flying.
Mounting the sky with natural heroism,
above the accidents, above the malignant movies,
the taxicabs and injustices at large,
while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears
that simultaneously listen to
a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer,
please come flying.
For whom the grim museums will behave
like courteous male bower-birds,
for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait
on the steps of the Public Library,
eager to rise and follow through the doors
up into the reading rooms,
please come flying.
We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping,
or play at a game of constantly being wrong
with a priceless set of vocabularies,
or we can bravely deplore, but please
please come flying.
With dynasties of negative constructions
darkening and dying around you,
with grammar that suddenly turns and shines
like flocks of sandpipers flying,
please come flying.
Come like a light in the white mackerel sky,
come like a daytime comet
with a long unnebulous train of words,
from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
2.9k
*In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*
Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
She's my SIS
she is everything that i'm not
still we are in some ways alike
I hate how all those years passed where we barely spoke
we live in the same house but its like each one was alone
Sometimes even if we would talk it was to say something mean
so many things i regret i wish i could repeat those scenes
I know every brother and sister have their fights
but i still remember when you were afraid to sleep alone at night
We used to share the same room until i turned 14
Dont get me wrong
we had alot of fun memories
but as we got older we grew apart
i know its not your fault
its probably mine
i wasnt there for you almost all the time
sorry
you probably wont read this but its good to say how i feel
i dont talk much so this is my only relief
i never was a good Bro
i just want to hug you and never let go
I love you <3
Words Of Harfouchism
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Sitting cross legged on earth, in the wilderness alone quiet,
I meditate,on the single sprawling tree, in her poetic best,
verdant and robust, I wouldn't fail to see how ceaselessly
she did strive, in reinventing herself moment after moment.
A bird, dedicating her song to the evening's evanescence,sings on,
like nothing else ever matters to her, even after it's end,
as she has known her inner-self better, by making her songs
more relevant, each time than before,and than the songs of others,
without any reason particular, more by a compulsion mysterious.
While delving in to the depth of that compulsion, Marianne Moore,
I feel present in my mind, she is the tree fighting the creative battle,
not to dislike her own creation,the bird with persistent compulsion.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
For seven-eighths of each day
I long for those instantaneous moments of
Unbridled joy.
I bid so long to Marianne
As I hear the full bubble of wine
And welcome Suzanne
And the fullness of her moistened lips.
Oh, if the eyes are portals to the soul,
Then the throat must positively be the vessel
To all that soothes the thunder
and causes our souls to shudder
In the watery pits of our gut.
These toxic tonics that we hold
Betwixt our baneful id,
And our most pathetic of egos.
This lamb that tames the lion,
Purple hearted with paranoia
and a lack of trust to rival even the most barbarous
Of governments.
**** me or don’t.
Perhaps the only mark of solace in this life
Is to be stabbed in the front
And to avoid the hustling of the scheming lovers
Behind the roman blinds of your devotion.
Set fire to Marianne.
You can lay with Suzanne
But don’t share a smoke with her.
Because she will take.
And take.
Take.
T.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
There's a devil in me
Her name is Marianne.
She's my impulsiveness
my scorn
my haughtiness
and, yes, my insanity.
If I'm the balloon the boy let go of, she's the one who murmured to let me go- convinced I could fly
But-
I CAN NOT FLY.
It is a simple thing.
I am no bird.
I am no balloon.
or maybe i am.
but I'm a penguin.
or a thin-skinned animal balloon.
Perhaps I can run, jump, dance
I CAN NOT FLY.
So I must beg the boy,
* don't
let go
of me.
please.
i'll float too high and
P O P!*
Ah, but panting into his other ear is
Marianne.
**I wants to try out my wings!
I want to
kiss that boy,
slap those *******
steal a car,
run away to Europe,
become a ninja,
ride a dragon,
and on
and on
and on.
Just let go.**
*Let's get this straight, Marianne.
I CANNOT FLY.
The boy?
doesn't love us
Those *******
are people too.
That car?
is not ours.
Europe?
is expensive
Become a ninja?
we're afraid of the dark!
Ride a dragon?
they aren't real! and we're afraid of heights!
And on and on and on?
where would you stop?
I CAN'T FLY!
I'm a penguin!
I am charming
sweet
graceful, even
But-
We will not live your dreams.
please.
don't let go.*
she gasps,
**I want to dance!
I want to sing!
I want to shout!
I want to laugh!
I want to love!
I WANT IT ALL!!!
Fling us free, up into the blue yonder!
Live fast and die young!
We'll live forever-ever-ever!
YOU CAN FLY!
WE'LL SOAR ABOVE EVERYONE!**
i whisper
*no.
hang on.
don't let me go.
hold me close.
i can not fly*
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Liberté Egalité Fraternité,
le vrai Triptyque Républicain
En hommage à nos ancêtres qui surent être ambitieux et fonder un triptyque toujours primordial, jamais accompli ni vraiment réalisé.
LIBERTE !
Frêle comme doigts d’enfants,
Plus précieuse qu’un diamant,
Ton seul parfum nous enivre
Et comme, un bon vin, nous grise.
Tu es hymne à la vie
Qui fait lever des envies.
Tu suscite des passions,
Libère des émotions.
Tu fus conquise de haute lutte
Par nos ancêtres en tumulte.
Ils nous donnèrent pour mission
D’en multiplier les brandons.
A trop de Peuples, elle fait défaut.
Elle ne supporte aucun bâillon
Car si l’être vit bien de pain,
Il veut aussi choisir son chemin.
Si tous les pouvoirs la craignent,
Ma, si belle, tu charmes et envoute,
Mets les tyrans en déroute,
Sœur de Marianne la belle.
***
EGALITE !
Elle fut la devise d’Athènes,
Et révérée par les Romains.
Elle naquit en 89, avec la liberté du Peuple,
Est fille de Révolution.
Elle abolit les distinctions
Séparant les êtres sans raison.
Ouvre la voie à tous talents
Sans s’encombrer de parchemins.
C’est un alcool enivrant
Que l’égalité des droits.
C’est aussi une promesse
De secourir celui qui choit.
Si l’égalité fait tant peur,
C’est que son regard de lynx
Perce les supercheries
Et voit les hommes tels qu’ils sont.
FRATERNITE !
Elle coule, coule comme le miel,
Nectar de la ruche humaine.
Elle sait embellir nos vies,
Et faire reculer la grisaille,
Du calcul, froid et égoïste.
Dans la devise Républicaine
Elle tient la baguette de l’orchestre.
Comme un peintre inspiré, elle met,
Sur la toile, vive et vermillon.
Elle nous incite à l’humanisme.
Elle est petite fille de 89, fille de quarante –huit
Mais sut renaître en 68.
Elle est crainte par les puissants,
Qui n’ont jamais connu qu’argent,
C’est pourtant une essence rare.
Dans les temps durs, elle se cache,
Mais vient ouvrir la porte
Au Résistant pourchassé. Elle n’hésite pas aujourd’hui
À secourir un «sans papier»
Sa sœur est générosité.
Elle est la valeur suprême,
Qui rend possible le «vivre ensemble»
Et permet même au solitaire
De faire battre un cœur solidaire.
La fraternité reste la vraie conquête de l’humain.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi) à Toulouse; France.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
inspired by“Blame It on Kristofferson” written by Byron Hill and John Wilken,
released 2010
(lyrics below)
<•>
A young teen listens to the
folk/rock during the Sixties,
five few years later,
now all growed up and living, crazy,
on Bleecker Street, the very same,
where these songs were being sung live,
by the artists, songwriters & friends
on the streets’s bars ‘n cafes
And Judy sings a ballad, mysterious,
‘bout a Marianne and all the tea in China,
words written like it was a poem,
and the infection was silent transferred,
still ‘fected, even now, in days sooner to
be reporting to heaven’s door, this blessed
curse will be unrelenting coming along,
we blame it on
Leonard Cohen
Knew the words, learned the secret chords,
which was easy, a-direct line between us,
knew where he got them holy tunes, and the
words he stole stealthy from our prayerbook,
went to Montreal, visited his home,
it was no accident, just the hand of god,
but don't blame the divine mystery being,
nah~nope, half~century, later, this dope
still blames it on,
yeah that’s right, on
Leonard Cohen
And here we are, the two of us, probably
smiling, gesticulating and gesturing, who
in fact is truly responsible for our crazy gene,
that pursues us, to create,
to mate words with
music of the deep soul, and here me be,
I am,
grateful grasping for each latter day to birth a new creation,
going out smiley & feeling kindly and fulfilled, now more than ever, and
zero doubts that the person at fault, fully blaming it all on my Canadian soul brother,
Leonard Cohen
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 9:36 AM UTC
181 to 200 of 3251 Poets
«891011»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by
Joelle Biele
To Katharine: At Fourteen Months
Veronica Patterson
Marry Me
Rick Campbell
Heart
Mary-Sherman Willis
The Laughter of Women
Sharmila Voorakkara
For the Tattooed Man
Max Mendelsohn
Ode to Marbles
Jonathan Holden
Car Showroom
David Tucker
The Dancer
Today’s News
Marianne Boruch (b. 1950)
It includes the butterfly and the rat, the ****
Some dreamily smoke cigarettes, some track
Trish Dugger
Spare Parts
Carrie Shipers
Medical History
Love Poem for Ted Neeley In Jesus Christ Superstar
Steven Huff
Safe
Lee McCarthy
Santa Paula
William Kloefkorn
"I stand alone at the foot "
Jackson Wheeler
How Good Fortune Surprises Us
Steven Orlen (1942–2010)
Three Teenage Girls: 1956
In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas
Steven Schneider
Chanukah Lights Tonight
Jessy Randall
Superhero Pregnant Woman
Anne Pierson Wiese (b. 1964)
Inscrutable Twist
Columbus Park
Regina DeSalva
Snip Your Hair
«891011»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
You had given up by the 1970s,
Just as I realised the 'art'
in accountancy is to reveal the beauty
in the numbers; and later,
writing contracts for a living,
that 'art' is in the beauty of the words.
Thank you for your verse:
Poetry is in everything,
including business documents,
that captures our imagination.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
"our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate,
Our greatest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure,
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us,"
Marianne Williamson wrote those words in 1992
To me those words are still some of the most inspirational words
Have you ever heard of a suicide complex
I'm willing to bet you have just not called a suicide complex
Yes I mean suicide and no I do not mean a complex suicide
That kid that you saw today walking down the hall thinks about killing himself everyday and doesn't because he can expect great things to come from his life
Why?
Maybe not because he is smart or charismatic or hard working but because he has beaten death,
Yes he continues his life because he believes that he is a beacon of hope for the hopeless,
That girl that everyone calls a ****
Has never once done a ****** thing
She has never thought of being sexually active
She has held onto her boyfriend longer than any of you
She has considered cutting her wrists and saving the trouble of ******** and name calling
But she doesn't because she knows there are people who love her while the people who call her a **** or ***** are just jealous because they don't have the life she does
That **** that everyone loves once thought about shooting up the school he once thought if no one would remember him for anything other than being that fat kid in 5th grade that he should be remembered for killing everyone he hated
But what changed
He found his calling
He found his sport and he is popular
In school he sticks with the jocks and outside he hangs out with the outcasts because they were with him before he was popular
I once thought about ending my very existence
I had never done anything important and probably never would
And I never believed people when they told me I would do great things with my life
I want you to know two thing about me
I'm tired of pretending
I'm terrified of it ending
But because of you I will never let it end
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
For Marianne, a woman with an unusual heart
I know her, perhaps by a pinch of night air,
Because we share the same music, same voice that night in Guadalupe,
After a day of toils for hearts climbing upon ladders, unending stairs.
I know her, perhaps half of those golden strings,
Because we share the same air of jollity that day in Enchanted kingdom,
Gasping for air, breathing faintly, yet enthralled by the twists and turns of magic.
The heart most tried is the strongest, like the gold tested in fire,
I know her.
I know her, perhaps the fullness of the orange moon,
Because we share the same water under the canopy of azure skies, that brief reprieve the El Nido offers,
Sharing the same tongue of honesty we speak that night, I respect her.
I know her, perhaps more than she knows herself,
But that’s an unforgivable lie, indescribable it is to fathom a woman with an unusual heart,
Because hers, speaks of metaphors.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
The hadron collider showed an unknown influence affecting subatomic particles.
“Is this proof of a higher power in the universe?” asked Marianne Williamson.
“Is this Will, is this magick?”
Yes Herr Nietzche, there will always be unknowns in human science as the scientists should have known all along, instead of substituting the most recent names of observations as the replacement of God.
No, there probably isn’t free will but we seem to be life in the unknown with more power than any other around.
This universe may just repeat on and on but what do you do with that knowledge? Can you even help to choose what you choose?
All these past influences and instinctual impulses lead the charge. But there's that spark. That mystery if we can ever really know and comprehend it all with limited senses, time, and minds.
Maybe you don’t have a choice in your life, but you can have the feeling you do. The feeling you can shape your world amid the destiny you feel in your heart.
Practice being a yeasayer to life because that just might be your fate.
Amor fati each time around.
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 9:10 PM UTC
Delighted giggles ring in the night
I picture them skipping and racing in front of their parents, so eager.
Mom and Dad will lag behind and chat about what cute thing Susie did on the playground today, and how she cried for an hour because she wanted to start trick or treating early.
Now their plastic pumpkins swing too and fro in their hands; they drop what precious amount of candy they have worked for in the first ten minutes without even noticing their loss, they dash forward while the elders of the parade pick up the wayward treats.
To be young and gleeful again, they think to themselves.
Now endless bills replace endless candy bars and brief cases replace swinging pumpkin baskets, the glitter of innocence long gone from their eyes.
They can no longer afford reckless nights of illuminating bed sheets with flash lights in order to read books after the lights go out; flash lights with names inscribed in puffy-paint give way to harsh desk lamps which show the work left abandoned on the desk at night: Susie needs a bath, work will have to wait.
No longer can they crawl into their siblings’ beds and share secrets about such lovely things like the kitten they secretly feed in the mornings before school, or how Marianne uttered a curse word at home and got a spanking.
The only secrets they share now in the wee hours of the night are of their distresses about how to fix the leaking sink and who will pick Susie up from school tomorrow.
But soon they are snapped back into this crisp night
from their more somber thoughts
by the most beautiful sound in the world:
“Mommy! Daddy! Can I go to the next house?”
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
Last evening Adam came to me and said:
Listen, Dorian, let’s lay it on the table. In my garden
I have a house. It is yours, for free. All you have to do is
take care of the garden: cut the grass, get rid of the weeds,
Water the flowers, feed the wolves…whatever…pick up the leaves,
Maybe do a bit of to sweeping…ok?
I looked Adam into the eyes, I watched the way
he moved his bunch of keys, the way he had shaved his beard above the upper lip
and his snake leather trousers, his shoes.
And I said: Yes! With a hand on my hip and the other over my eye
Then Adam got into his car, opened the gates of paradise with the remote control
And I was left alone. I fell to my knees,
On the alley with snails and lemons,
Then I started to pull the weeds with my bare hands.
The sun was shining on my back, rather hard,
But I, charged
With bottles of water, was stronger than him.
Innocently, I set my mobile to play Mozart
And the butterflies hit my chest like a powerful love
The garden was flourishing under my hands. Even the sun was fawning under my knees
And the wolves were eating flower seeds and grass form my hands.
Then she passed, dragging by her bare feet a marble cross.
I ran and picked up the cross, until I managed to throw it over the wall.
She looked at me and said:
Glad to meet you. What is your name? I’m Marianne.
Then she went indoors, with a bag of snakes, in her arms.
Many years I worked at that garden. But Adam never came home.
(At times, from the house, I hear noises, scratching and cooing)
Sometimes, even in my sleep I hear his voice calling me:
Dorian, Dorian, where are you?
I am here milord…here I am.
What did you do?
Nothing, nothing at all..
Dorian, I have a house in my garden. Did I tell you?
Yes, Sir, you did…
And did I agree?
Yes, we both did.
Then, I see him darkening, opening the car door and getting in smiling
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
Marianne!
Come in my love, where have you been?
Marianne!
Come in out from the rain, madame.
Marianne!
It won't be long, the fog won't last.
Marianne!
So long as all shall come to pass.
But don't tell me you can't remember
That bright night last November,
Marianne!
Won't you be my friend?
Marianne!
Did you foresee this circumstance?
Marianne!
Don't lie! Y'know, I've seen you dance...
And don't tell me you can't remember
That bright night last November,
Marianne!
Won't you be my friend?
Marianne!
We’re right back where it all began.
Marianne!
Tomorrow marks today again.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
by Marianne Williamson
Our deepest fear is not that we
are inadequate. Our deepest
fear is that we are powerful
beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness
that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I
to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does
not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened
about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure
around you. We are all meant
to shine, as children do.
We were born to make manifest
the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us;
it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other
people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from
our own fear, our presence
automatically liberates others.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
Can there be anything redder than her lips?
Is there anything colder?
Anything sweeter?
Softer?
Qui e t e r . . .
Can there be anything sweeter than her heart?
Is there anything redder?
Anything colder?
Quieter?
"Sof t e r . . .*
Such a face
With a tounge that can so easily
Put you in your place
With a collar of velvet
That tickles the skin
And a sweet
Soft
Cold
Red
Quiet heart
That has so much to give
And is without sin
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Stanley Kunitz would have outlawed anger management,
where was he when I was dealing with my felony charges?
Dylan Thomas would have bailed me out,
"Make it your legacy, kid. Go out swinging. How was the bologna?"
Marianne Moore would have materialized before little old intoxicated, hypothermic me,
"This is mortality, this is eternity. Save yourself the trouble, hang yourself in this cell, sweetie."
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 12:43 PM UTC
If you will tell me why the fen appears impassable,
I then will tell you why I think that I can cross it if I try..”
-Marianne Moore
When this world teeters on the abyss of emotion
and those I shepherd cannot find a way through the fog,
I try and hang a lamp from the front of this old rowboat
and paddle out slowly into the fen. That mind/shadow space
that surrounds and swallows their light.
I ask them what they need, and offer a steady hand
as they step onto the old planks. The children always begin
in silence but something about the way the water
Whispers to the wood, how the boat glides almost
unheard that always drives them to eventually speak
Of what carried them out beyond the threshold
of what one might bear stoically in public.
The oars provide some solace, something physical to pull
On that moves when these hands claim strength.
So much of what anchors us cannot be unshackled from skin.
They are loads we must drag along the deep until our hearts
forgive us for their weight. This is why I travel slowly, accepting
Silence as a cleverest answer, I ask my travellers where they are headed.
To acceptance they often say, or vengeance if they are not ready
To escape the shape of their shadows. I to dress in gloom, but
only when I put down the oars, while rowing there is no room
for night to claim my kingdom.
Often there is nothing to do but listen to their stories
Let the sound of the lake lapping lapse into whatever tale is waiting
To be told, and sometimes just speaking its name is enough to banish
The wendigo that hunts behind teenage confidence, and sometimes their
Is nothing I can do but row. Rarely, they jump overboard but I
Weep but only when even their echoes have faded. Carve
their name into the planks in salt tear and let it mix with the bilge
And yet, there are those days that if I row just long enough, and can
Keep the silence within my cheeks, that suddenly a soft glow
Will rise from out of the darkness, bubble up like a lighting fish
and settle upon the bow. Those are the days the calluses are worth
Their calling. Those are the days the docks rise up from the mist long
Before fatigue creeps into these old bones and we spend the end
of the trip almost in each other’s arms, holding tightly to each other’s
Essence as my hands pull against the sea of time, as both of us heal,
And I call out goodbye as they step ashore, but they are already dressed
in gossamer glow, shining in the early morn, already wandering back into the light
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 5:54 AM UTC
There are films, and then there are films that are directed by Luca Guadagnino, set in Italy, starring Tilda Swinton, and featuring wardrobe by Raf Simons during his time at Dior. Released earlier this year, A Bigger Splashmarked Swinton, Guadagnino, and Simons' second film collaboration (the first was I Am Love) — and it made everyone want to go on holiday looking fabulous.
Basically: Swinton plays Marianne Lane, a world-famous rock star holidaying in the sleepy Italian town of Pantelleria. (Right? We know.) Though her character is recovering from throat surgery, which renders her speechless for the entire two hours of film, leave it to Swinton to remain as captivating as ever. Oh, and she's joined by a rather sweaty Matthias Schoenaerts, a wickedly pompous Ralph Fiennes, and a brooding, scantily-clad Dakota Johnson.
If you're unfamiliar with Guadagnino's style, it's filled with long, lingering shots of nature, close-ups of food, silences (and lots of them), sumptuous sceneries, grandiose architecture, and breathtaking styling.
Simons worked with Guadagnino's friend, costume designer Giulia Piersanti, on the wardrobe. She told i-D about the inspiration for Marianne's clothes:
We specifically wanted Marianne Lane, Tilda's character, to be a bit more elegant than her surroundings. It was important for her to have a wardrobe that was a bit over-the-top. In the end it was also important in the acting and portrayal of the character for her to be nonchalant about it and very effortless. She's a star, and she doesn't hide it. Even when she goes out into the piazza, she's a bit overly dressed, like an old movie star would be. She needed to keep that glamour in her wardrobe.
Despite the striking simplicity of Marianne's style (billowing jumpsuits, shirt-dresses, and thong sandals), it's the details that make this film one of the finest examples we've seen of dressing well in the heat. For your viewing pleasure (but still — watch the film), we've selected the most memorable fashion moments. Warning: You will want to do away with all your hot pants, crop your hair, and buy some silver shades, pronto.See more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
Last-ting Pleasures (Leonard Cohen)
“Morning coffee on the balcony of this old duplex, the cat at my feet, and a couple of biscuits. Notebook near by. No one coming over.“
Leonard Cohen
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aging with graces saved from so many spectacular failures, I took droplets of wisdom where they were free to drink, yet
the best, were the most costly, for which you never end paying
but here I sit, well traveled, in Los Angeles sunshine, do my calculations, my final preparations, memorizing the blessings
so they flow easy, no stumbling, unbefitting a poet-writer lover
obligations diminished, bills paid, goodbyes said and spent, so long Marianne, lines of jewish buddhists wisdom seekers not too long, a few women come, last looks, a reminiscence for themselves
lovers seeking preservation, a signatory on their diaries, proofs, of what I know no longer know to state, sated, the statuary
sentence almost served, and last scribbles, to notebook dispatched
It is His Will, and yet here I am, asking forgiveness, as tradition demands and more, understanding, for it was all transcribed into praise of You and your god-sparked creatures, ah, bon chance, until we meet again, bring your robe and tallit, let us recite psalms
for if there was ever a wilder king, finer poet, lusting for life and god, all of us just birds on the wire, gambling which course to fly, where to, so waiting patient, resolution of the only remaining unanswered question, who by fire?
anyone, each of us, who first asked ourselves why not! before we ever thought,
why?
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 10:59 AM UTC