A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.
Albert Camus
Tag: words
“Sometimes a person will believe (without being conscious of this) that she and God are alone together in the world and this will carry her through the loneliness of her life.”
— Fanny Howe, “Kristeva and Me”
hey, could you tag nsfw? im rlly uncomfortable w/ all the genitalia on my dash
I’m sorry—my whole blog is nsfw. It just gets way too difficult, at the rate that I post, to efficiently filter for everything that people have requested I tag as sensitive.
Long after you have swung back
away from me
I think you are still with me:
you come in close to the shore
on the tide
and nudge me awake the way
a boat adrift nudges the pier:
am I a pier
half-in half-out of the water?
and in the pleasure of that communion
I lose track,
the moon I watch goes down, the
tide swings you away before
I know I’m
alone again long since,
mud sucking at gray and black
timbers of me,
a light growth of green dreams drying.
–Denise Levertov
We pray: Thy will be done.
And yet he has no will.
He is eternal stillness.
Angelus Silesius
I am not trying to tell a story. Yet perhaps it might be done in that way. A mind thinking. They might be islands of light—islands in the stream that I am trying to convey: life itself going on Autobiography it might be called.
Virginia Woolf, Diary entry, 28 May, 1929
[Poetry] takes us out of the literal so that we can see what is real.
Eve Ensler (via the-end-of-art)
THE FIELD
Remember that meadow up above the ridge
where the dog ran around in circles
and we were tired from the climb up
and everything was tilted sideways
including the running in circles
of the ecstatic dog his bright tongue
lapping at the air and we were
leaning into the heart of the field
where no battle ever took place
where no farmer ever bothered
to turn the soil yet everything
seemed to have happened there everything
seemed to be happening at once enough
so we’ve never forgotten how full the field
was and how we were there too and fullTIM NOLAN
I had grasped God’s garment in the void
but my hand slipped
on the rich silk of it.
… for though I claw at empty air and feel
nothing, no embrace,
I have not plummeted.
from Suspended by Denise Levertov
I hope you all find yourselves sleeping with someone you love, maybe not all of the time, but a lot of the time. The touch of a foot in the night is sincere. I hope you like your work, I hope there’s mystery and poetry in your life — not even poems, but patterns. I hope you can see them. Often these patterns will wake you up, and you will know that you are alive, again and again.
Eileen Myles, “Universal Cycle.” The Importance of Being Iceland. (via winesburgohio)
The poet’s gift is never for the poet’s self, but for another: ‘Hush, hush. All injury / is feeling.’
Allen Grossman, from “Poet’s Sampler: Joanna Klink,” Boston Review (1 April 2000)
Little Bristling Soul 