ambedo n. a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life
poetrysince1912: For an hour I was a maple tree, and under the summer of his fingers the notes seeded and winged away in the clutch of small, elegant helicopters. —Poetry, July/August 2009 Over at The Lit Pub, Karolle Rabarison praises Beasley’s I Was the Jukebox, particularly the poems “The Piano Speaks” (above) and “Unit of Measure”, both of which first appeared in the July/August 2009 issue...
hemingwaylionthroatpunch: … … … I could never finish Lord of the Rings … … … Despite creating such a rich, detailed world Tolkien is kind of boring as a writer … … …
years ago, he would have given anything to knock on her door. he couldn’t count how many times he thought about driving up to her college, asking for her room number. sometimes she was there, sometimes she wasn’t. those times, he’d leave a note or, if feeling more romantic, maybe a flower. a bird-of-paradise, something only he and she would understand. something personal. ...