end of line.

homo homini lupus est

Skip to content
  • Home
  • Me
  • poetry.
Search

not poetry

Huh. I didn’t even know “story posts” existed.

July 15, 2021July 15, 2021 / April Joy / Leave a comment

Thinking makes it so.

July 10, 2021July 10, 2021 / April Joy / 2 Comments

Automat, Edward Hopper. For years I’ve wanted to live according to everyone else’s morals. I’ve forced myself to live like everyone else, to look like everyone else. I’ve said what was necessary to join together, even when I felt separate. And after all of this, catastrophe came. I must rebuild a truth — after having … Continue reading Thinking makes it so.

The Deep Despair/Hope of Holidays Alone

July 4, 2021July 4, 2021 / emily29red / 1 Comment

Emily’s first End of Line post!

Meditations on the consensual hallucination.

June 30, 2021 / April Joy / 1 Comment

Everyone is happy on social media. I know I promised to finish my thought on Kundera, and I will! I promise. I’ve gotten sidetracked by a series of conversations I’ve had on social media, however, as one does. I don’t think I’ve actually finished a thought since I joined Twitter. It’s quite embarrassing for someone … Continue reading Meditations on the consensual hallucination.

Levity.

June 22, 2021June 22, 2021 / April Joy / 2 Comments

I have no idea where I got this picture but I love it. But is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid?The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. … Continue reading Levity.

This is the way the world ends.

June 20, 2021June 20, 2021 / April Joy / Leave a comment

Datta: what have we given?My friend, blood shaking my heartThe awful daring of a moment’s surrenderWhich an age of prudence can never retractBy this, and this only, we have existedWhich is not to be found in our obituariesThe Wasteland, TS Eliot. I have a hard time writing about faith. I grew up Baptist, a pastor’s … Continue reading This is the way the world ends.

This wave.

June 5, 2021June 6, 2021 / April Joy / 1 Comment

The Tempest. J.W. Waterhouse / 1916 How do we learn to be still? To allow people the grace to ebb and flow around us without reacting to their emotional whirlpools, their tempests, or their doldrums? Don’t look at me — I have no idea. I am a reactor. I become a tempest in response to … Continue reading This wave.

But I don’t want to.

May 26, 2021May 26, 2021 / April Joy / Leave a comment

On the heels of the lighthearted post I wrote last night, I’ve realized that I really must become more serious. More grounded. Less flighty and superficial. I know, I know — it’s a tall order. There really is so little going on in my head. What I’m doing right now is called “procrastination.” I’ve got … Continue reading But I don’t want to.

Tell me again how God is good.

May 24, 2021May 25, 2021 / April Joy / 4 Comments

Edward Hopper Time present and time pastAre both perhaps present in time futureAnd time future contained in time past.If all time is eternally presentAll time is unredeemable.What might have been is an abstractionRemaining a perpetual possibilityOnly in a world of speculation.T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton. Those who say, “It is better to have loved and lost … Continue reading Tell me again how God is good.

Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.

May 17, 2021May 18, 2021 / April Joy / Leave a comment

Come, take my hand. What’s done cannot be undone.Lady Macbeth. Ophelia, Waterhouse. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” In grade school I wanted to be an actress, until my mom spent several panicked hours lecturing me on the odds against me ever becoming famous, the inability to support oneself on the … Continue reading Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.

Posts navigation

← Older posts
Newer posts →
Follow end of line. on WordPress.com

drink me

  • Twitter
  • Instagram

the wasteland

“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

the archive

  • May 2022
  • December 2021
  • October 2021
  • September 2021
  • August 2021
  • July 2021
  • June 2021
  • May 2021
  • April 2021
  • March 2021
  • August 2020
  • July 2020
  • June 2020
  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • January 2020
  • July 2019

marina

This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.

burnt norton

And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.

Statcounter

Web Analytics
Create a website or blog at WordPress.com
  • Follow Following
    • end of line.
    • Join 4,185 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • end of line.
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...