the base of my heart

September 30, 2018

hips

My body began to wait for Piki to push her fingers inside, how they would reach all the way to the base of my heart and pull out my heart on Piki’s palm…It felt like it was raining red inside me and I was amazed yet again when the sheets hadn’t turned red, but instead were wet like a tissue filled with tears, even though Piki had pushed her fingers all the way up into my heart. My skin was filled with hematomas that were visible even in the dark, my heart glowing through my skin, as if it were beating towards Piki’s burrowing fingers even after she had pulled them out. As if it were spreading through my whole body trying to find its way back to those merciless fingertips.

Sofi Oksanen
Baby Jane

Last Supper in every poem

September 30, 2018

Tea and books

Each time there is writing. No writing opens a passage without this bodily violence. How otherwise does one explain the charge – others would say the investment – the libidinal, even narcissistic charge that everyone brings to his own texts? It is my body, this is my body. Every poem says, “This is my body,” and the rest: drink it, eat it, keep it in memory of me. There is a Last Supper in every poem, which says: “This is my body, here and now.” And you know what comes next: passions, crucifixions, executions. Others would also say resurrections.

Jacques Derrida,
Rams: Uninterrupted Dialogue–Between Two Infinities, the Poem
From: Sovereignties in Question: The Poetics of Paul Celan

ghost of an experience

September 30, 2018

nightmaresandsexyghouls - Stefan Heilmann - Boys are you brave enough to play with me

I asked the poet Tony Hoagland what he thought about fear. He said fear was the ghost of an experience: we fear the reoccurrence of a pain we once felt, and in this way fear is like a hangover. The memory of our pain is a pain unto itself, and thus feeds our fear like a foyer with mirrors on both sides. And then he quoted Auden: “And ghosts must do again / What gives them pain.”

Mary Ruefle
Madness, Rack, and Honey

Love –

September 30, 2018

The name of a person you love is more than language –

Tennessee Williams
The Vine

Addictive

September 30, 2018

Pressed lips
Clear blue eyes
Racing heart
Damp skin
Panting breath
Naked Skin
Perfectly imperfect body
Gently touches
Wondering fingers
Exploring hands
Echoing moans
Addictive

Kita Raizal

Vespertine

September 29, 2018

Dear night: It was so warm
under you that I offered
but you refused
to endure. You won’t remember
me. (We danced. I was the one
in the dark. I was wearing
this face.) In daylight, I’m an acre of empty
desert, anyway. A spent white flower. A pale
honey scent wilted away.
And I’m having this dream:
I am mourned by millions.
I died young and I was so, so pretty.

Camille Rankine,

reasons for writing

September 29, 2018

Saul Leiter

I’m often asked when I started writing. But the important question is not when do writers start, but why.

My own reasons for writing, for setting down the story, are to a large extent selfish. With each story – and by story I mean anything I write – I am trying simply to work something out for myself. You, the reader, play no part here: this is a private matter.

Roxana Robinson
If you invent the story, you’re the first to see how it ends

process of distillation

September 29, 2018

tangled lives

According to alchemical lore, a marriage of opposites had to occur before lead would turn to gold. Water had to be wedded to fire, the sun to the moon, and the masculine to the feminine. The alchemists also believed that before the opposites could unite, they had to be reduced to their purest essences by a lengthy process of distillation, purification, and refinement.

Jalaha Bonheim
Aphrodite’s Daughters: Women’s Sexual Stories and the Journey of the Soul

Poetry

September 29, 2018

Poetry is a veil in front of a heart beating at a very fast pace.

Jericho Brown
interview with Kate Kellaway for the Guardian newspaper 28th July 2018

as lesbians

September 29, 2018

I think that, as lesbians, we can all agree that we were unexplainably fascinated by Pin-Up women and had no idea that this was our early call to Lesbianism.

Anon
Golden Lesbians