Life
loser is an emotion to me.
yoami98:

Ouija 

Its is a chilly god, a god of shades,
Rises to the glass from his black fathoms.
At the window, those unborn, those undone
Assemble with the frail paleness of moths,
An envious phosphorescence in their wings.
Vermilions, bronzes, colors of the sun
In the coal fire will not wholly console them.
Imagine thier deep hunger, deep as the dark
For the blood- heat that would ruddle or reclaim.
The glass mouth sucks blood- heat from the forefinger.
The odd god dribbles, in return, his words.

The old god, too, writes aureate poetry
In tarnished modes, maundering among the wastes,
Fair chronicler of every foul declension.
Age, and ages of prose, have uncoiled
His talking whirlwind, abated his excessive temper
When words, like locusts, drummed the darkening air
And left the cobs to rattle, bitten clean.
Skies once wearing a blue, divine hauteur
Ravel above us, mistily descend,
Thickening with motes, to a marriage with the mire.

He hymns the rotten queen with saffron hair
Who has saltier aphrodisiacs 
Than virgins’ tears. That bawdy queen of death,
Her worny couriers are at his bones.
Still he hymns juice of her, hot nectarine.
I see him, horny-skinned and tough, construe 
What flinty pebbles the ploughblade upturns
As ponderable tokens of her love.
He, godly, doddering, spells
No succinct Gabriel from the letter here
But floridly, his amorous nostalgias.
- Sylvia Plath (1957)
*I’m posting this poem because it is called Ouija. No, i have never played the game, nor am i planning on doing so, but i’ve seen it in action. I know it may sound foolish of a  year old, but that’s my fear. I fear supernatural activity such as spirits and paranormal activity. Even though i have not experienced any and wish not to, I still fear such things. And this poem surprised me and i thought i may post it since it relates to me. Enjoy.*
Exercise the writing muscle every day, even if it is only a letter, notes, a title list, a character sketch, a journal entry. Writers are like dancers, like athletes. Without that exercise, the muscles seize up.

Jane Yolen (via maxkirin)

If this is the case I guess I do write every day, I’m always writing long emails (for work or to friends) or jotting down thoughts or bits of stories or editing or writing posts on here. Why do we beat ourselves up for doing anything but writing new words of a story?

(via yeahwriters)

Romance writers do what they love, and they get paid for it. They hone their craft, like any other writer. They value their work, and they speak with an honest voice, telling the stories that they want to tell. I can’t imagine anything more feminist.Writing Romance Fiction Is A Feminist Act by Danielle Summers. (via therumpus)
washingtonpost:

This is the most comprehensive map of Mars we’ve ever seen.
yoami98:

Trios of Love Songs (3)
If you dissect a bird
to diagram the tongue, 
you’ll cut the chord
articulating song.
 
If you flay a beast
to marvel at the mane,
you’ll wreck the rest 
from which the fur began.
 
If you assault a fish,
to analyze the fin, 
your hands will crush 
the generating bone.
 
If you pluck out my heart
to find what makes it move,
you’ll halt the clock

that syncopates our love.  
- Sylvia Plath (Juvenila) 
yoami98:

Two Lovers and a Beachcomber by the Real Sea
Cold and final, the imagination
Shuts down its fabled summer house;
Blue views are boarded up; our sweet vacation  
Dwindles in the hour-glass.
 
Thoughts that found a maze of mermaid hair
Tangling in the tide’s green fall
Now fold their wings like bats and disappear
Into the attic of the skull.
 
We are not what we might be; what we are
Outlaws all extrapolation 
Beyond the interval of now and here;
White whales are gone with the white ocean.
 
A lone beachcomber squats among the wrack
Of kaleidoscope shells
Probing fractured Venus with a stick
Under a ten of taunting shells.
 
No sea-change decks the sunken shank of bone
That chuckles in backtrack of the wave; 
Though the mind like an oyster labors on and on,
A grain of sand is all we have.
 
Water will run by rule; the actual sun
Will scrupulously rise and set;
No little man lives in the exacting moon

And that is that, is that, is that. 
-Sylvia Plath (Juvenilia) 
bookspresso:

Book Sale 006 by pennstatenews on Flickr.
theparisreview:

James Laughlin, The Art of Publishing No. 1
Word of the Day

yoami98:

5) Accommodate (verb): provide lodgings 

ex: Mary asked the room clerk whether the hotel would be able to accommodate the tour group on such short notice. 

Other forms: Accommodation (noun)