Vanilla

 

History of tea

 

Vanilla tea

 

Upon Julia’s Breasts BY ROBERT HERRICK

 Upon Julia’s Breasts

BY ROBERT HERRICK

Display thy breasts, my Julia, there let me

Behold that circummortal purity;

Between whose glories, there my lips I’ll lay,

Ravished in that fair Via Lactea

What hitler likes

 

Dada poem

 Range the ge ge geg eg e he g e he tent 

Edge the the th Brent eye tab ssf barber

Ethernet meth barber debts debts by are the

Enter gene th feather enter b bar fever the sgbfbs

My soul is permanently murdered

 

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

 To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

BY ROBERT HERRICK

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry. 

PRIDE MONTH

 

Why neo-Nazis are picketing Disney World, prosecution to rest in Tree of Life trial, Anne Frank adaptation called pornographic, and the Talmud is apparently more popular than Ed Sheeran.

PRIDE MONTH

Students organized by the Nazi party in 1933 parade in front of the Institute for Sexual Research, founded by Magnus Hirschfeld, inset. (Wikimedia)

It was a pioneering trans library – until the Nazis burned it   Within months of Hitler becoming chancellor of Germany in 1933, pro-Nazi students publicly burned books by Jewish authors. Troves of research on sexuality also smoldered in those piles. Our culture reporter Irene Katz Connelly has the details…   Doctor is in: The Institute for Sexual Research, housed in a Berlin mansion, was the first medical center devoted to the study of gender and sexuality. It was founded by the pioneering sexologist Magnus Hirschfeld, a gay Jewish doctor and activist who lobbied against the criminalization of homosexuality.   Library is open: The Institute offered medical care and health education, printed scientific journals, hosted lectures and screened films. Hirschfeld and his colleagues also developed an enormous library of rare texts and notes on gender-affirming surgery.   Setting it ablaze: Joseph Goebbels drew on pro-Nazi student organizations to purge cultural institutions of “degenerate” art, and on May 6, 1933, students broke into and occupied the Institute. Four days later, they burned its entire library. Though much of his research was destroyed, Hirschfeld nonetheless helped pave the way for today’s LGBTQ+ rights movement.   Read the story ➤

Patrons at the Eldorado, a popular LGBTQ+ cabaret in Berlin during the Weimar years. (Getty)

Opinion | Historians are learning more about how the Nazis targeted trans people: Toni Simon, a transgender woman, was “the sassy proprietor of an underground club where LGBTQ people gathered,” writes Laurie Marhoefer, a historian of queer people in the Weimar and Nazi eras. Simon was deemed “a danger to youth” and a Gestapo officer suggested she be sent to a concentration camp. Simon’s story is but one of many trans people whose stories are now coming to light. Read the essay ➤   Related: How the Forward covered LGBTQ+ history

With a pure heart by Attila József

  With a pure heart

I have neither native sod,
nor a father, mother, god,
cradle gone, the shroud I miss,
lack a lover, lack a kiss.

Three days’ hunger, not a bite:
nothing heavy, nothing light.
Just on twenty, strong and well,
twenty years I’ll try to sell.

If a buyer can’t be got,
let the devil take the lot.
Pure at heart, I surely will
break and enter, even kill.

They will catch me, I’ll be hung,
blessed earth on me be flung,
deadly grasses will then start
growing on my splendid heart

What Is the Measure BY DONIKA KELLY

 What Is the Measure 

BY DONIKA KELLY

For M

I catalog what I cannot capture:

the sun, its ragged stumble into rockface,

the precise elevation of this plateau or the next,

the sea, of course, against which everything is measured.

My tools are insufficient, inexact.

For instance: there is no way to measure

the peak against the distance from the tip

of one ring finger to the other, no matter

my arms’ position: outstretched, limp, akimbo.

For instance: there is no way to weigh

the earth pushed out of earth

against the gravity of my body, its bones,

its sacs, its meat and animating light.

I submit:

I do not constitute the mountain.

This, in spite of the pallet of old quilts

and newly fallen maple leaves I’ve made

at its immeasurable base.

I submit:

I do not constitute the field,

although I have harrowed its length, its width

with my narrow feet, my slow step.

Never mind I hear what scurries

or scatters, what burrows or bounds.

Never mind I raise my hand to hover

the bent grass, the echinacea’s bald crown—

all of which withers or writhes,

all of which is new or nearly the same

before my foot’s next fall.

I submit:

As with the mountain,

                                    the field.

As with the field,

                           you,

ineluctable as a season, sun ragging the rockface.

Your arm, nearly as long as mine, your palm,

wider, your mouth a beginning, your eyes, of course,

against which everything else is measured.

You harrow and the summit writhes;

your broad foot falls, and the field, akimbo, gives up

its gravity, lets loose its bodies its bones,

thrums an animating light.