Isolato

lay waste with fire the heart of man

137 notes

Unless the eye catch fire,
God will not be seen.
Unless the ear catch fire,
God will not be heard.
Unless the tongue catch fire,
God will not be named.
Unless the heart catch fire,
God will not be loved.
Unless the mind catch fire,
God will not be known.
William Blake - Pentecost (via querubax)

(via wizzard890)

Filed under william blake poetry

0 notes

Having had such an experience of the Word, why wonder if I usurp the voice of the bride, calling him back when he was gone away—I who burn with a desire that is partly like that of the bride, though not equal? As long as I shall live that word of recall by which the Word is called back will be dear to me: the very words “Come back!” (Song 2:17). As often as he slips away, I will repeat it; and I will not cease to cry out with burning heart’s desire behind his back as he departs so that he might return and give back to me the joy of his salvation, that is, to give himself to me.
Bernard of Clairvaux, Sermon LXXIV, trans. Bernard McGinn from Sancti Bernardi Sermones in Cantica

Filed under bernard of clairvaux christianity song of songs

73 notes

jewishconversion:

ludmirermoyd:

A handmade mizrach-shiviti paper-cut from the U.S.A., 1861.
The larger inscription reads “This is the gate to G-d”. The two medallions above it read: “I have set the L-rd always before me” (Psalms 16.8).
A mizrach is a decorative piece that indicates the correct direction for prayer, and a shiviti is a meditative plaque used for the contemplation of G-d’s Name. They were particularly popular in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

A beautiful work of art.  Religious-themed Jewish art is such a rarity to come by because of the commandment prohibiting visual depiction of God.  However, this is a high-quality example proving that Jews have found ways to incorporate Hebrew text and organic, curvilinear motifs into elaborate works to celebrate the world that God has created.

jewishconversion:

ludmirermoyd:

A handmade mizrach-shiviti paper-cut from the U.S.A., 1861.

The larger inscription reads “This is the gate to G-d”. The two medallions above it read: “I have set the L-rd always before me” (Psalms 16.8).

A mizrach is a decorative piece that indicates the correct direction for prayer, and a shiviti is a meditative plaque used for the contemplation of G-d’s Name. They were particularly popular in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

A beautiful work of art.  Religious-themed Jewish art is such a rarity to come by because of the commandment prohibiting visual depiction of God.  However, this is a high-quality example proving that Jews have found ways to incorporate Hebrew text and organic, curvilinear motifs into elaborate works to celebrate the world that God has created.

(via hiddurmitzvah)

Filed under judaism mizrach-shiviti

14 notes

princessmeanypants:

I Wandered In a Desert Place

Then in the desert I lay dead,
And God called unto me and said:
“Arise, and let My voice be heard,
Charged with My will go forth and span
The land and sea, and let My word
Lay waste with fire the heart of man.”
-Alexander Pushkin, “The Prophet”

Consecration 448T-Woven Hand :: Jesus Gonna Be Here-Tom Waits :: John the Revelator-Son House :: Calvary-Dock Boggs :: Nothing But the Water-Grace Potter & the Nocturnals :: I Got to Cross the River Jordan-Blind Willie McTell :: Antioch 277-Henegar Union Sacred Harp :: Thistledown Tears-Jeffrey Foucault :: Hutterite Mile-16 Horsepower :: Poor Wayfaring Stranger-Natalie Merchant :: Sparrow-Simon & Garfunkel :: Fire in the Blood/Snake Song-The Bootleggers feat. Ralph Stanley & Emmylou Harris :: Lungs-Townes Van Zandt :: Hellhound on My Trail-Robert Johnson :: God’s Gonna Cut You Down-Johnny Cash :: Idumea-Sacred Harp Singers :: Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground-Blind Willie Johnson :: Ain’t No Grave-Odetta :: Crosses-José González

Filed under music christianity

35 notes

Asleep on the roof when rain comes,
water collects in the dips of his collarbone.

Dirty haired boy, my rascal, my sacrifice. Never
an easy dream. I watch him wrestle my shadow, shut eyelids
trembling, one fist ready for me.

Leave him a blanket, leave him alone.

Night before, found him caked in dirt,
sleeping in a ditch, wet black stones for pillows.

What kind of father does he make me, this boy
I find tangled in the hair of willows, curled fetal
in the grove?

Once, I found him in a far field, the mountain’s peak
like a blade above us both.

saeed jones, isaac, after mount moriah. (via black-poetry)

Filed under saeed jones poetry

52 notes

The acre of grass is a sleeping
swarm of locusts and in the house
beside it, tears too are mistaken:
thin streams of kerosene
when night throws itself against
the wall, when Nina Simone sings
in the next room without her body
and I’m against the wall, bruised
but out of body: dream-headed
with my corset still on, stays
slightly less tight, bones against
bones, broken glass on the floor
like dance steps for a waltz
with no partner. Father in my room
looking for more sissy clothes
to burn. Something pink in his fist,
negligee, lace, fishnet, whore.
His son’s a whore this last night
of Sodom. And the record skips
and skips and skips. Corset still on,
nothing else on, I’m at the window;
he’s in the field, gasoline jug,
hand full of matches, night made
of locusts, column of smoke
mistaken for Old Testament God.
saeed jones, boy in whale bone corset. (via black-poetry)

Filed under saeed jones poetry

970 notes

This is not typical church.
We will not yell
about sin and hell
for that picture doesn’t work anymore
for those who have worked on factory floors.
We welcome you new crawling psalms,
you drunk choirs
you gouged melodies
you nasty bags of glowing mercy.
We welcome those with unpaid bone tariffs
those raised by the missing
those boys who got lost in the eyes of another boy
those who loved the cities that hated them
those who kept putting on their gloves for boxing the
sanity out
those who couldn’t scratch their golden tickets because
their nails
were ground down from clawing their own way out of
their father’s casket
those who couldn’t get skinny enough to get to the front
of the line
those who couldn’t stand anymore so they built splints out
of words,
out of their own words,
Depth charges, yes!
The choir charging the audience with tambourines in their
teeth, yes!
Kick me when I’m up, yes!
Hallelujah, we are fucked! Yes!

Derrick Brown (via andrewgibby)

no one howls the holy home into your bones the way derrick brown does

(via tangldupinblue)

(via tangldupinblue)

Filed under derrick brown poetry