My craft is not stringing lyres
with sunbeams, nor weaving wreaths.
Patient cutting of facets
on tears unshed, that is my craft.
Not for the sake of a gleam in the eye,
but to leave a trace behind…
and truly royal will be the reward:
a chance to cry the heart out.
19th June 2013
“Words bother me. I think it is why I am a poet. I keep trying to force myself to speak of the things that remain mute inside. My poems only come when I have almost lost the ability to utter a word. To speak, in a way, of the unspeakable. To make an object out of the chaos … To say what? A final cry into the void.”
—Anne Sexton, from a letter to Dennis Farrell, August 2, 1963
Reblogged From apoetreflects
Notes: 1977
I hate and love this place, and cannot but laugh that the ground is covered in stones.
(Source: amandaonwriting)
i was less of a knock on the door
and more of a baseball through the window
nothing so deliberate
as a smile- precious view, enlightened
as a walk around an artificial lake
in the middle of a suburb
are the fish not alive?
they are less of a spring-burst of energy
and more of a symmetrical longing
in the hearts of everyone
Simone Weil (via janegalvin)
And thus those blind to beauty are those who will not allow themselves to desire anything which they cannot devour?
Yohji Yamamoto (via wordsthat-speak)
Yes and no. It is a narrow definition of perfection that does not realise the organic is included. But then, it is a mistake I often make.
Ter Worm Castle, Netherlands (by Niki Feijen)
This should be beautiful, but for me the precision of reflection makes it horrifying instead.
a set of knives, the cufflinks in a drawer,
the dice, the pair of Queens, the eyes
of someone sitting next to you:
Attend that empty minute in the evening
when looking at the clock, you see
its hand are fixed on the same hour
you noticed at your morning coffee.
These are the moments to beware
when there is nothing so familiar
or so close that it cannot betray you:
a twin, an extra key, an echo,
your own reflection in the glass."
A Watcher
The mail doesn’t come
and doesn’t come.
The mail doesn’t come.
It’s three o’clock, I’ve been
downstairs to check, and up again,
and down and up — it
doesn’t come.
Incognito in the little shops
is how I want to go.
And in and out
about the neighbourhood,
observing unobserved.
And yet I long, I long.
Long to be known, and know.-Robyn Sarah
“Everything, of course, is a mirror if you look at it long enough.”
—Charles Simic, from section V of The Monster Loves His Labyrinth (Copper Canyon Press, 2008)
