After each night we are emptier...

Yuri Pimenov 

The night sits wherever you are. 
Your night is of lilac. 

Ilya Pyankov






Bill Bragg 






Armin Landeck

 And your night is your shadow—

a fairy-tale piece of land to make our dreams

equal. I am not a traveler or a dweller

in your lilac night, I am he who was one day

me.

Night

staring at itself safe and assured in its

endlessness, nothing celebrates it except its mirror

Peter Jogo


Giuseppe Ugonia


Kurt Preissler




Jakub Schikaneder

Remember, no matter how dark the night, 
there is always a happy ending. 
But first, you have to make it through the night.


Kawase Hasui






Józef Pankiewicz.


John Felsing


 Gevorg Bashinjaghian, 1909

***
title - cioran
1, 3, 3. line - from a poem - Your Night Is of Lilac BY MAHMOUD DARWISH
last line - L.J. Smith

" I opened the window onto my inner self and lost myself in watching. "

In the night I will drink from a cup of ashes and yellow paint.

In the night I will gossip with the clouds and grow strong.

edouard vuillard

the self and the soul in the darkness

chanting to the ecstatic chance of existence.

Christopher Thompson




Kenton Nelson

always real, always elusive, always a city, 
and wonderful, and lost. 
All night I wander alone, searching in vain for the irretrievable.






kim cogan






Edward Hopper




In the night I will cross rooftops to watch the sea tremble in a dream.

Joseph Pennell


 ...a city that feels the way the skin of  
 an octopus looks pulse-changing from color to color, 
 laminar and fluid and electric, 
 a city of shadow-draped churches... 



John Sloan 

Deep is the darkness and long is the night,

solid the water and liquid the light. How strange

that they arrive at all, nights on planet earth.

Zachary Johnson







***
title - Pessoa
all lines from a poem 'Nights on Planet Earth' by CAMPBELL MCGRATH

$

Hate poem

I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped 
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under by third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.
You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine." 


by

Julie Sheehan

You are outside life, you are above life

Some nights in the house by the river, I walked out

into a collective dream of home—an overstory

          overlooking a body of water

Anne Packard




Clarita Beyer

the sky inside her eyes, chlorine and glass.

          I tithe to the darkness and I’m glad for the dark

two hours where I undo her, where I remember the eye

          I indulged, the opposite of sacrifice, the lamb’s throat

uncut, the woolly body kindled in the green

          like a dream of Lorca’s, betrayed in the telling.

the sky a paper life.

          when I came back and found her bound in the sheets,

the opposite of spectacle, not absorbing the gaze but

          giving off light like night water, giving back the gorgeous

I had inscribed there, a fallen form...

Heather Horton


Maurizio Quarello




Fernand Khnopff

Finally the whole body

          The sky a gray whale, the sky magnanimous and cruel.

and not just its parts, wants to be unloved, beginning

          The sky Purgatory Road, the sky a god mouth, a crow.

rick amor






Vitaliy Mashchenko




Katarzyna Celek

feral and essential, like a language lost, like night

          illuminated by the night.

the sky six-thirty darkening.

a mirror of her hair—fixed or deranged

          Sky of correspondences, the color of G minor, the taste of gray.

She thought, from the audience: I should be up there.

Franz Sedlacek

The sky orchestra and karma, the sky Gold Bought and Sold.

The windows of the house I won’t live in held light
Eoin Mc Hugh