“Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.”—Jack Gilbert, Horses at Midnight Without a Moon (via yesyes)
Read the newspaper or a magazine or something that is on paper. Don’t let the whole ‘print journalism is dying!’ bullshit come true because sometimes dying newspaper jokes can be really funny. Also, if you stare a a computer screen too much you’ll either gain wrinkles around your eyes or you’ll…
you want to change something about your life
but your lover took both pairs of tweezers.
so you settle for shaving your legs again
and writing around one calf
in drunken pen the lines you keep
reciting to yourself from Marie’s poem
and which you will get
tattooed on that spot as soon
as the credit card company agrees
to pay for it: I am living.
I remember you. yesterday
you wrote a poem that began,
I go to work under a heavy
turban of grief and last week,
Gabi, I’ve been drafting epitaphs
all day – you find an old
pair of tweezers in the back
of the medicine cabinet
and get pulling. each sweet yank
a morsel of pain so good you begin
to understand those teenagers
who carve themselves into scarecrow
figurines. this small pain has
a location. a yes
and an end. what no one tells you
about grief is that it has no edges.
that no matter how much
you love the world, how grateful you are
for sunflowers and trashcans
and your unglamorously aging bones,
you’ll still have dreams
where you’re screaming across a table
at each other about something, you can’t
figure out why until you realize
she died. and here you are. a dull
pair of tweezers in a cluttered apartment,
crying on the floor. you want to make
something beautiful out of your life
but you never learned to paint
and you’re nearly 37. you have
no children and you burn dinner
more often than you dance. you feel
like a cloth set down on something spilled.
useful but soiled. handy, but not essential.
maybe you’ll evaporate, or come apart
in the wash. maybe you’ll figure out
what binds you to this planet
is not a magnet, but a cord so fine
you can slide it across one hand, fold
your fingers around the slippery
umbilical. pull. here is sorrow.
pull. and here is bread. pull. some light
breaks across the linoleum. pull.
where do we go from here.
Marty McConnell, “the fidelity of epitaphs (20 days later)”
“it’s one of those nights filled with love. or is it desire. the cusp. hong kong
orchids growing from tree bark towards fireflies. lights blinking inside. almost
complete. breathing. singing. sinking. treeing. reaching towards flint hills in
kansas. desire for what i don’t know. desire for something i don’t know. desire
for the beauty of things to end, and something else to blink. something else to
sway like paper bougainvillea. not quite red, and already gone. spring gone that
fast. bottlebrush fallen. tecate can riddled with fingerprints, in the middle of the
street like a burnt firework. everything i felt when I first arrived gone. different
sulfur rising from a bucket of water. hotter than beach glass. singed and shining.”—Emmy Pérez: sweet metal sweet (via grammatolatry)