The Monster

January 31, 2019

Through a wild midnight all my mountainous past
Laboured and heaved with all I had forgotten
Until a poem no bigger than a mouse
Came forth. And with darkness finally passed
We faced each other, begetter and begotten:
“Monster!” I cried. And “Monster!” cried the mouse.

Henry Rago

not just the words

January 31, 2019

What poetry is made of is so old, so familiar, that it’s easy to forget that it’s not just the words, but polyrhythmic sounds, speech in its first endeavours (every poem breaks a silence that had to be overcome), prismatic meanings lit by each others’ light, stained by each others’ shadows. In the wash of poetry the old, beaten, worn stones of language take on colours that disappear when you sieve them up out of the streambed and try to sort them out.

And all this has to travel from the nervous system of the poet, preverbal, to the nervous system of the one who listens, who reads, the active participant without whom the poem is never finished.

Adrianne Rich
Someone is writing a poem

books

January 31, 2019

How marvellous books are, crossing worlds and centuries, defeating ignorance and, finally, cruel time itself.

Gore Vidal
Julian: A Novel

go to them

January 31, 2019

“You can’t stay in your corner of the forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes”

A. A. Milne
Winnie the Pooh
[illustrated by E. H Shepard]

unassailable serenity

January 31, 2019

…to make one’s center of life inside of one’s self, not selfishly or excludingly, but with a kind of unassailable serenity – to decorate one’s inner house so richly that one is content there, glad to welcome anyone who wants to come and stay, but happy all the same when one is inevitably alone.

Edith Wharton
Letter to Mary Berenson
Reproduced in Edith Wharton: A Biography by R. W. B. Lewis

to kiss and stroke

January 31, 2019

Making love in the afternoon is completely different in summer and winter. To begin as the afternoon light is fading, to wake up, warm and heavy, when it is completely dark, to kiss and stroke the shared invisible body, to leave the person you love half asleep while
you go and open wine…

Jeanette Winterson
Why I Adore the Night

Easy mistake to make –

January 30, 2019

Three Months Later

January 30, 2019

cheeks flushed a burning pink,
wondering what it would take
for you to call,
for me to call,
for me to stop wanting to
in some sick little
game of hope,
enough to make
the chest ache something pathetic

i want you out –
not a request
but an eviction notice –
i want my body back
i want my brain purged
i want my body to stop trembling
out of some awful need
to be touched

i want to stop
looking at the other side
of the bed and wondering
what it would be like
to meet you there.

Emily Palermo

If I could express the same thing with words as with music, I would, of course, use a verbal expression. Music is something autonomous and much richer. Music begins where the possibilities of language end. That is why I write music.

Jean Sibelius
Interview with Berlingske Tidende, June 10, 1919.

Today –

January 30, 2019