London’s grey in the summer rain,
the Thames an unmagical stone
(dead mirror of the soft darkish sky).
the buildings of this city hide,
tracing paper outlines until they sharpen
suddenly, appearing in their muted colour,
their fellows still-indistinct obelisks.
(as if statues approaching the train.)
stepping out into the Waterloo rain,
the drifting crowds are blurred,
casual visitors scared off,
London in a different key.
the misty grey is a comfort, an opiate.
no bright lights. no screaming children.
the faint glow of the city in the darkened day
is a promise greater than all summer cliches.
the subtle shimmer of buildings on reflective streets,
the splash of natives along wet pavements,
fenced garden squares verdant green in the gloom:
London sings under the fog.
to watch raintracks splitting like the tree of life
down bus windows
and see street lights flashing in puddles
(huddled inside warm pubs)
is a romance no sunshine can grant me.
the rain’s steady drumming
is the beat of hope and home
(ground bass to the singing of my soul).
under the low sky
I am safe, drops of water trickling down my face,
I could walk through this city
and no one would see me for the rain
it was here first.
it predates all attempts at civilisation.
it was here before it had a name.
(stupid, these humans
who presume they can place names on nature.
how do you name power?)
it has seen them grow
and make forays across its waters
in ever bigger boats.
(they sink no matter the size.)
it remembers the glacial creep down
cutting the place it would take
(where it has now lain for longer than men have memories)
and when you have been ice
you do not so easily lose its hardness.
it will flood regardless of our towns.
I kept expecting to see a bay, a closing off
of the water’s span.
instead the Bodensee continued to flood
into the left field of my vision,
calm water as far as I could see.
pockets of brick, small patches of boats,
docks venturing out into open water:
the mark of humans flitted across the shoreline.
it barely dented the impression of the long, blue Bodensee.
(flying past on the train
even the horizon was the lake.)
gazing out at the unending blue
I thought perhaps the land had become the addendum
to the lake.
I do not know how many lives the lake takes a year
but I have heard stories of escaped prisoners
fleeing across its surface
(black in the dead of night).
I wonder if they are thankful for it.
some say the lake let them cross,
but perhaps it did not care.
three heartbeats and a pair of oars
are nothing when you are the landscape.
perhaps it does not hear us.
perhaps it does not listen.
we and our towns throng to the water’s edge.
we are incidental to its depth
and shining stretch.
our place names have none of the easy intelligibility
of German - Obersdorf, Donaueschingen, Karlsbad -
words that tell you who and what and where.
we are distanced from the words on our maps
by the evolution of our tongues,
our English constantly moving on, consigning Thorpe,
Fishguard and Ormskirk into the dust
in the wake of a language that steals and absorbs other tongues
as if it will die without their succour.
our language war gave us these names
and then took away our ability to read them with ease.
so we have long forgotten who founded these towns.
but if we divine their names
we can find their pasts, diving
into the history trove of our polyglot tongue
and ringing the chimes of their place in time,
and bring to life the Romans, the Norsemen, the Saxons,
the tongues that invaded
and twined with our Celtic speech
(for languages are always made of people
and people are the words they speak)
I wish I could stop myself from loving Downton Abbey because of what Fellowes did to my favourite characters, and because it’s fucking capitalism porn
but I can’t help myself
crossing through the extremes of southern France
the flat fields gave way
to dusty towns. faded buildings rose
(as the Massif Centrale and the Alps
had done earlier on our journey)
from the sun-beaten ground.
the light dropping lower in the sky,
Sète pulled itself up from the riverbanks.
dirtier than I remembered, the fine buildings tatty
paled grandeur clear in the late evening.
still charming, but peeling at the edges
(like the way old photographs
start to disintegrate,
fading when left out in the sunshine).
but as we left town,
clicking smoothly over the tracks,
I was assailed by the descending light
shining off the lagoon
curving into sight,
its waters hitting me like a punch,
so blue I had to stop and catch my breath
I’m watching the VMAs on German tv as a social investigation and all I can notice is how fucking awkward and completely unfunny each of the introductions and award presentations are
but darling stay with me..
the number of hiking nuns in this town is preposterous
my dad bought me a bear dressed as a train guard
I’m twenty in January
#TENNANT OUT BITCH
Lillian Weber, a 99-year-old good Samaritan from Iowa, has spent the last few years sewing a dress a day for the Little Dresses For Africa charity, a Christian organization that distributes dresses to children in need in Africa and elsewhere.
Weber’s goal is to make 1,000 dresses by the time she turns 100 on May 6th. So far, she’s made more than 840. Though she says she could make two a day, she only makes one – but each single dress she makes per day is personalized with careful stitchwork. She hopes that each little girl who receives her dress can take pride in her new garment.
No filter required to make the Brocken look this creepy. Can well believe it was the border zone during the Cold War. Can also understand the mumblings about the witchery woo… #harz #germany #brocken #holiday (at Auf Dem Brocken)
people who reblog my selfies are my fave kind of people, I’ll remember you when I’m rich and famous and I’ll come back to pay...
seeing a hot stranger in public is a blessing
seeing the same hot stranger in public again is a sign
people who reblog things and dont tag anything. r u ok. r u alive. do u have any feelings. hello.
the number of hiking nuns in this town is preposterous
How many Hogwarts boys do you think Madam Pomfrey has to fix every year because they messed up trying to cast an Engorgio on...