Tag Archives: light
Quotidian: Erin Morgenstern on Storytelling
rt Carried Away
“Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that… there are many kinds of magic, after all.”
― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus
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Poetry: Untitled
Bedridden, I ate nothing for days. Gradually came paper-thin
noodles boiled in lemon water, salt-less crackers they called
saltines and half cups of chamomile. Unable to escape I assumed
nothing happened in the world beyond my bedroom. Light
changed as it always had, doves cooed in the hollows of the house,
once the sound of a woman laughing, two men yelling in a strange
tongue, the old church bells down the road and the occasional car
passing by, but the restless silence seemed to be the most
unbearable thing.
-W.J. Preston, Apple Valley Review
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Poetry: The Coming of Light
Even this late it happens: the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up warm bouquets of air. Even this late the bones of the body shine and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath. -Mark Strand, Poets.org
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Poetry: Light Makes Motion
Naked boy makes light like
mosquito, like
key drunk and the door.
I name a ghost for him.
I don’t care – all boys end.
Light goes, popped story like
wanting any him pushed, sucked
flat mosquito, to door.
I name the ghosts for them. Light
goes, breaking out like
wound-touch, like
school child, like
boy become naked can door.
Light goes.
Naked boy crawls shadow to bed.
His name says he will have
greater fortunes than this.
Sound for ghost goes
kwi-shin
like
boy swallows mosquito, like
boy I kissed once, boy
who swallows his name.
Like
like
boy kiss drunk and the noraebang
song loud as junk food and light
light sour stomach humming light
crystal-spun light
like
anyone turned on,
turned off.
My name says I will have
greater ghosts than this.
-Kat Dixon, Kenning Journal
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King’s Cross Station
by apemal
Coffee and Irony 