Kirk Sullivan

@kirksullivan.bsky.social

178 Followers 717 Following

Current: PhD Candidate at uWaterloo | Previous: own goal scorer, sheep counter, crab butcher, capelin picker | Calvert crowd | he/him

Those Winter Sundays By Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?
The National Flag of Canada A vertical triband of red and white (double width) with one red maple leaf centred on the white band. Designed by George F. G. Stanley
Newfoundland Postal Telegraphs Dated: 7th October, 1916 To: Mrs. Sarah A. Barnes, Topsail. Regret to inform you Record Office London today advises that No. 1576 Private Maxwell Barnes previously reported Missing was Killed in Action July first. J.R. Bennett, Colonial Secretary
A beacon of a woman is wearing a lovely green dress and a warm smile as she celebrates her 103rd birthday surrounded by her family in a fishing village on the coast of Newfoundland. Her name is Marie Fred Sullivan and you’d be lucky to meet her.
This is a photo of W.S. Merwin's poem "Living with the News." Living with the News Can I get used to it day after day a little at a time while the tide keeps coming in faster the waves get bigger building on each other breaking records this is not the world that I remember then comes the day when I open the box that I remember packing with such care and there is the face that I had known well in little pieces staring up at me it is not mentioned on the front pages but somewhere far back near the real estate among the things that happen every day to someone who now happens to be me and what can I do and who can tell me then there is what the doctor comes to say endless patience will never be enough the only hope is to be the daylight
A chalkboard in front of a little free library displays this text: I sang you all my sorrows You told me all your joys Whatever happened to that old song To all those little girls and boys Shane MacGowan 1957-2023
Snow is falling upon a string light-wrapped little free library. Scrawled on the chalkboard leaning against the library is this excerpt from Joy Harjo's poem "Once the World Was Perfect": And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know How to live with each other. Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another And shared a blanket. A spark of kindness made a light. The light made an opening in the darkness. Everyone worked together to make a ladder. A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world, And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children, And their children, all the way through time— To now, into this morning light to you.