Meditation on shapes.

My mind is not my friend.

4 notes


How funny your name would be
if you could follow it back to where
the first person thought of saying it,
naming himself that, or maybe
some other persons thought of it
and named that person. It would
be like following a river to its source,
which would be impossible. Rivers have no source.
They just automatically appear at a place
where they get wider, and soon a real
river comes along, with fish and debris,
regal as you please, and someone
has already given it a name: St. Benno
(saints are popular for this purpose) or, or
some other name, the name of his
long-lost girlfriend, who comes
at long last to impersonate that river,
on a stage, her voice clanking
like its bed, her clothing of sand
and pasted paper, a piece of real technology,
while all along she is thinking, I can
do what I want to do. But I want to stay here.

-John Ashberry

Filed under poetry john ashberry

6 notes


All morning with dry instruments
The field repeats the sound
Of rain
From memory
And in the wall
The dead increase their invisible honey
It is August
The flocks are beginning to form
I will take with me the emptiness of my hands
What you do not have you find everywhere

W.S. Merwin

Filed under poetry ws merwin

106 notes



If I Needed You - Townes (live 1975)

What a good lookin fella

If I needed you would you come to me
Would you come to me, for to ease my pain
If you needed me I would come to you
I would swim the sea, for to ease your pain.

Well, the night’s forlorn and the morning’s born
And the morning’s born with the lights of love
And you’ll miss sunrise if you close your eyes
And that would break my heart in two.

If I needed you would you come to me
Would you come to me, for to ease my pain
If you needed me I would come to you
I would swim the sea, for to ease your pain.

Baby’s with me now since I showed her
How to lay her lily hand in mine
Who could, I’ll agree she’s a sight
To see a treasure for the poor to find.

If I needed you would you come to me
Would you come to me, for to ease my pain
If you needed me I would come to you
I would swim the sea, for to ease your pain… 

King of the world. 

3 notes


Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
-Carol Duffy

114 notes

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Mary Oliver (via victimofescapism)

(Source: the-healing-nest, via victimofescapism-deactivated201)

120 notes


Sophie Calle: Exquisite Pain

Part I presents photographs, letters and other mementos from a 92-day trip to Japan. On the last day, a wall label tells us, her lover back in Paris broke off with her by phone, and that is why each consecutive item is stamped ”92 days to unhappiness,” ”91 days to unhappiness” “90 days…” and so on.

Part II pertains to the period after the breakup, during which Ms. Calle asked people to describe to her their most emotionally painful memory. Diptychs arrayed around the gallery pair machine-embroidered banners, one bearing another person’s story and the other an increasingly brief retelling of Ms. Calle’s story. The banners hang below emblematic photographs: on Ms. Calle’s side, of the red hotel phone by which she received her bad news; on the other, of a significant thing or place. By the end of the series, Ms. Calle’s banner has become empty of words, her obsessive grief presumably exhausted.

3 notes

Why My Mother Made Me

Maybe I am what she always wanted,
my father as a woman,
maybe I am what she wanted to be
when she first saw him, tall and smart,
standing there in the college yard with the
hard male light of 1937
shining on his slicked hair. She wanted that
power. She wanted that size. She pulled and
pulled through him as if he were silky
bourbon taffy, she pulled and pulled and
pulled through his body till she drew me out,
sticky and gleaming, her life after her life.
Maybe I am the way I am
because she wanted exactly that,
wanted there to be a woman
a lot like her, but who would not hold back, so she
pressed herself, hard, against him,
pressed and pressed the clear soft
ball of herself like a stick of beaten cream
against his stained sour steel grater
until I came out the other side of his body,
a tall woman, stained, sour, sharp,
but with milk at the center of my nature.
I lie here now as I once lay
in the crook of her arm, her creature,
and I feel her looking down into me the way
the maker of a sword gazes at his face
in the steel of the blade.

-Sharon Olds

Filed under poetry Sharon Olds