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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 16h

❤️❤️❤️

Reposted by Veronika Fuchs

Christina Tudor-Sideri @dreamsofbeing.bsky.social · 22h

For the inaugural issue of Draught Journal @draughtjournal.bsky.social:

On Bookmarks and Other Ruins—a reflection on the bookmark as a fragile site of memory, desire, and incompletion, accompanied by images of my own bookmarks.

draughtjournal.com/article/on-b...

On Bookmarks and Other Ruins

<p>There is something indescribably intimate about the act of interrupting one’s reading, the act of marking one’s place in a book, a subtle gesture t

draughtjournal.com

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 17h

Gorgeous!!

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 17h

This is lovely 💙

Andrea Z @azagata.bsky.social · 2d

52 still on Rilke

On the left, a blue crochet square in three shades of blue with a floral sun pattern. On the right, Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke, a new and complete translation by Alfred Corn. The book cover has shades of blue and an abstract floral pattern.

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Reposted by Veronika Fuchs

Alina Stefanescu @alinaetc.bsky.social · 1d

This Friday, a free @sarabandebooks.bsky.social zine workshop for yr lunch hour. My heart in that postscript. 🖤 We will wander through John Berger, little birds, and Rosa Luxembourg to write a p.s. zine. Register below. Come do words with me.

us02web.zoom.us/meeting/regi...

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 18h

❤️💛🧡

Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 18h

My son and I collect autumn leaves during our walks, with no other purpose than to adore them. With so much happening... this helps.

Collection of leaves in various autumn colors and shapes on a wooden table

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Reposted by Veronika Fuchs

Sam Rasnake @samrasnake.bsky.social · 4d

We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are.

Some machine made us; machine of the world, the constricting family.
Then back to the world, polished by soft whips.

We dream; we don’t remember.
Louise Glück
#poetry #writer

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 5d

❤️🖤

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 5d

Danke sehr!

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 5d

Ahh, Averno! I remember when I first encountered Louise's poetry (when I was studying English, and it was a video from the Lannan Foundation), and when I heard her read "Landscape", I was blown away.

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 7d

Roses for Susan @susanlleary.bsky.social, I hope you are doing well, Susan—this is probably the last bloom of the year, and therefore the most precious.

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 7d

Congrats!!

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 7d

October

Favorite parts from Louise Glück's poem October.

Text:

4

The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

The songs have changed; the unspeakable
has entered them.

This is the light of autumn, not the light that says
I am reborn.

Not the spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered.
This is the present, an allegory of waste.

So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate:
the ideal burns in you like a fever.
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.

The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful.
They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.
They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.

You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

A wind has come and gone, taking apart the mind;
it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.

How privileged you are, to be passionately
clinging to what you love;
the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.

Maestoso, doloroso:

This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the end
still believing in something.

Text:

6

The brightness of the day becomes
the brightness of the night;
the fire becomes the mirror.

My friend the earth is bitter; I think
sunlight has failed her.
Bitter or weary, it is hard to say.

Between herself and the sun,
something has ended.
She wants, now, to be left alone;
I think we must give up
turning to her for affirmation.

Above the fields,
above the roofs of the village houses,
the brilliance that made all life possible
becomes the cold stars.

Lie still and watch:
they give nothing but ask nothing.

From within the earth’s
bitter disgrace, coldness and barrenness

my friend the moon rises:
she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 12d

A painting that reminded me of this poem by Annie Nazzaro in @stonecirclereview.bsky.social, "After The Poet's Garden by Vincent van Gogh, 1888"

Text:

After The Poet’s Garden by Vincent van Gogh, 1888
by Annie Nazzaro

A summer night on the verge of seizure. The only story I know how to tell right now. The light shining strange and yellow on leaves that haven’t ever been this green. The same things that’ve always happened here. The wanting and the leaving, the grass bending in their wake. How a tree looks just before it topples, thrashing ahead of a crack. A paralyzing quiet, an unbearable heat. What I’ve been waiting for and what I would do anything to stop if there was anything that would stop it. The horizon line, obscured by foliage. Until the wind takes everything it’s going to take.

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Reposted by Veronika Fuchs

Alina Stefanescu @alinaetc.bsky.social · 12d

From the destroyed notebook:

(At the top margin, the word:) Nightmare -
(then disordered numbers, small, meaningless additions, then:)

— A note by translator Mark Karnak on Rainer Maria Rilke’s blue notebook

www.alinastefanescuwriter.com/blog/2025/9/...

Rilke's testament. — alina Ştefănescu

From the destroyed notebook: (At the top margin, the word:) Nightmare - (then disordered numbers, small, meaningless additions, then:) — A note by translator Mark Karnak on Rainer Maria Rilke’s b...

www.alinastefanescuwriter.com

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 12d

These are beautiful, Melissa 💚🩷

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 12d

And before: "But when we sit together, close, ... we melt into each other with phrases."

Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 12d

"We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory." Bernard, in The Waves

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 12d

Autumn: back to mists and watercolors

Watercolor painting: a misty autumn forest reflected in a pond at dawn

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 16d

And of Rilke: "I must pour myself out of my hands into the gardens of dark blue".

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Reposted by Veronika Fuchs

eileen chengyin chow @chowleen.bsky.social · 17d

How sad they are,
the promises we never return to.
They stay in our mouths,
roughen the tongue, lead lives of their own.
Houses built and unwittingly lived in; a succession of milk bottles brought to the door every morning and taken inside.
And which one is real?
The music in the composer's ear or the lapsed piece the orchestra plays?
The world is a blurred version of itself - marred, lovely, and flawed.
It is enough.
-Jane Hirshfield, "Autumn Quince", 1988

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 17d

the sadness of ... the stroke of midnight, ... words with too many meanings, ... insomnia, ... and icebergs seen from a canoe.

Text:

Purple by Mary Ruefle

Purple sadness is the sadness of classical music and eggplant, the stroke of midnight, human organs, ports cut off for part of every year, words with too many meanings, incense, insomnia, and the crescent moon. It is the sadness of play money, and icebergs seen from a canoe. It is possible to dance to purple sadness, though slowly, as slowly as it takes to dig a pit to hold a sleeping giant. Purple sadness is pervasive, and goes deeper into the interior than the world's greatest nickel deposits, or any other sadness on earth. It is the sadness of depositories, and heels echoing down a long corridor, it is the sound of your mother closing the door at night, leaving you alone.

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Veronika Fuchs @veronikafuchs.bsky.social · 17d

The bluest

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Reposted by Veronika Fuchs

Anne SdG. @annestolte.bsky.social · 18d

Herbst
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Die Blätter fallen, fallen wie von weit,
als welkten in den Himmeln ferne Gärten;
sie fallen mit verneinender Gebärde.

Und in den Nächten fällt die schwere Erde
aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit.

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