Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.
Clear Night, by our new Poet Laureate, Charles Wright
"I’m thinking about you. What else can I say?"
"Outside the window
they’re building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone’s
crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
can’t be all bad, but
does it? At this distance
you’re a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time I saw you.
Turn you over, there’s the place
for the address. Wish you were
here. Love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
& on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.”
— Margaret Atwood, Postcards
Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.
“Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”
“And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”
Is it Frida yet?
I feel very strongly about this, so here it goes again.
This line was not written by Frida. It’s from a hauntingly gorgeous poem by the very talented living poet, Marty McConnell. More on that later.
When Nevver/Thisisnthappiness was approached about this on Twitter, he shrugged it off and deferred to DesignCrush who created it. His erroneous post remains up, with almost 3,000 notes.
After DesignCrush was notified on Twitter & Instagram, she “updated” it by a mere comment in the bottom of its Instagram comment section. The post is still up as is, and she seems satisfied that she has done her part in correcting the issue.
Do you think that’s enough? On sites like Nevver where he actually makes $$$ off of advertising on TUMBLR?
If this was a case of attributing a quote to Lincoln instead of Whitman, I might shrug it off as ‘oh, you crazy internets’. But this is a case of attributing a quote to a dead celebrity, instead of a living, breathing, struggling poet. Even AFTER you’ve been notified that this is the case.
These folks are not green new bloggers. We’re talking about professionals who make their living on the backs of artists.
I don’t pick up the torch every single time I see it on my screen (who has time & energy for that?!), but on occasions like this, I have no choice. I will implode otherwise.
Reblog this. Follow Marty McConnell here.
“There is no depth to education without art.”
The best reason to live is that there is no reason to live.
I walked to your apartment in the late night.
Flowers I didn’t plant began to be flowers
and I was a color and then I was none.
Conrad said, let the train take you anywhere.
I passed all the old stops. With you I liked being nowhere
and with you I live nowhere now.
The best reason to paint is that there is no reason to paint.
Keith Haring wrote that, it could be about us.
I go into churches and I go into bars:
I feel the time stop.
To feel — you can’t stop at some point.
Stop time. Time stops you.
No one will let you through if you don’t walk your own sadness.
No one will let you touch them if you’re a person at all.
And you. You, you, you
you can read these lines in any order
because I want to leave nothing out anymore
and there’s nothing here.
Words are just words. I got nowhere.
Some new thing — everything I need to feel
I feel twice and risk three of. Some new thing —
how there’s more here without us at all.
"In black lies the possibility of hope. The universal sleep is hugged by black. A comfortable, warm black. This is no cold black, it is against this black that the rainbow shines like the stars.”
A cult in his lifetime; a cult today: artist, filmmaker, and poet, Derek Jarman's sketchbook