Autumnal-hues - Books And Coffee Cups

Four Houses as Famous Poems

Ravenclaw: O Me! O Life! By Walt Whitman 

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?                                       Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Hufflepuff: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Gryffindor: Night (O you whose countenance) by Rainer Maria Rilke

Night. O you whose countenance, dissolved in deepness, hovers above my face.

You who are the heaviest counterweight to my astounding contemplation.

Night, that trembles as reflected in my eyes, but in itself strong; inexhaustible creation, dominant, enduring beyond the earth’s endurance;

Night, full of newly created stars that leave trails of fire streaming from their seams as they soar in inaudible adventure through interstellar space:

how, overshadowed by your all-embracing vastness, I appear minute!— Yet, being one with the ever more darkening earth, I dare to be in you.

Slytherin: The Best Thing in the World by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

What’s the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, so, you’re loved again.

What’s the best thing in the world? —Something out of it, I think.

SEPTEMBER

poem beginning and ending with my death by zeina hashem beck // memory of water by reina maria rodriguez // a girl ago by lucy brock-broido // marta alvarado, history professor by marjorie agosin // mosiac by tim seibles // the bones of august by robin ekiss // peggy tony horton // september by deborah landau // september by h stuart // angel of repose by wallace stegner

[image id: 1) "I loved September best: / without fail, rain—the clear illusionist— / fell on the first day of school, always brought / the earth with it: the soil's fragrance rose raw / even in the alley." 2) "september is a month like any other and unlike any other. it seems in september everything awaited / will arrive: in the calm air, in a particular scent, in the stillness of the quay. when september comes, / i know i'm going to lose myself." 3) "Extinguish me from this. / I was sixteen for twenty years. By September I will be a ghost" 4) "In September / beyond the / breezes and the smoke / when autumn unveils its / fiery shell, / I think of you / fragile and severe, / small and immense" 5) "September: / the spiked fence freshly painted." 6) "not to carry the bones of August / into September, foiled with redness / and nothing to squander" 7) "Ah, September! You are the doorway to the season that awakens my soul... but I must confess that I love you / only because you are a prelude to my beloved October" 8) "Meanwhile August moved inward its impervious finale. / A mood by the river. Gone. One lucid rush carrying them along. // Borderless and open the days go on—" 9) "'The dark brown Inners brim / From little lake to lake, / Rustle and fall in slim / Streams down the mossy side / Of stone, while dim ferns shake / Their level spread of leaf, / Dust-grey beneath the wide / Cold light that these days take, / Gathering the calm grief / Into the face of the skies / Out of the heart-ache / The mortal heart denies." 10) "That old September feeling, left over from school days, of summer passing, / vacation nearly done, obligations gathering, books and football in the air ... / Another fall, another turned page: there was something of jubilee in that annual / autumnal beginning, as if last year's mistakes had been wiped clean by summer." /end id]

Rewatching Taare Zameen Par, bawling my eyes out, being totally mentally wrecked etc etc. Nice cycle this.

it's been a while since i did a book review post but i'm not sure if i can be normal about this one boys

cloud cuckoo land by anthony doerr is a novel about the preservation of a (fictional) diogenes play of the same name. but it's actually a book about five of God's most autistic soldiers and the ways in which this play shapes their lives. but it's actually a book about how books and stories give our lives meaning in the face of unthinkable horrors. but it's actually about the hope that his niece will feel better.

this book says it's all worth it. even the shit parts. maybe especially the shit parts. it says if you can make it to the end of the story maybe something beautiful will be waiting for you there.

In another universe, my mom doesn’t get married off into this mockery of a family. Her youth doesn’t get over even before she has the chance to feel it. Her ankles aren’t bound by chains. I’m never born. She is free. She is happy.

I Am Not Your Negro, dir. Raoul Peck (2016) (via lunamonchtuna)

❝i never imagined my career would turn out the way it has. after all, i'm just a kid from rosario who loves to play football.❞

happy birthday to world cup winner, lionel messi ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊⊹

Ruth Madievsky, All-Night Pharmacy // Suzanne Scanlon, Promising Young Women // Robin Roe, A List of Cages // Hayao Miyazaki, Kiki's Delivery Service // Susan Sontag, As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980 // D. H. Lawrence, The Plumbed Serpent // Jennifer S. Cheng, "So We Must Meet Apart" // Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart // Alice Oseman, Radio Silence // Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice

So, I’ve just read the new chapter of this fic that I love and I’ve been bawling my eyes out. The non-linear process of healing and learning how to accept love even if you don’t feel deserving of it hits so close to home.

7th poem is from @halfof-mysoul !

For the record, this is the correct answer.