A Sailor’s Song

March 19, 2019

Oh for the breath of the briny deep,
And the tug of the bellying sail,
With the sea–gull’s cry across the sky
And a passing boatman’s hail.
For, be she fierce or be she gay,
The sea is a famous friend alway.
Ho! for the plains where the dolphins play,
And the bend of the mast and spars,
And a fight at night with the wild sea–sprite
When the foam has drowned the stars.
And, pray, what joy can the landsman feel
Like the rise and fall of a sliding keel?
Fair is the mead; the lawn is fair
And the birds sing sweet on the lea;
But the echo soft of a song aloft
Is the strain that pleases me;
And swish of rope and ring of chain
Are music to men who sail the main.
Then, if you love me, let me sail
While a vessel dares the deep;
For the ship ’s my wife, and the breath of life
Are the raging gales that sweep;
And when I ‘m done with calm and blast,
A slide o’er the side, and rest at last.

Paul Dunbar

Love

March 19, 2019

When I fed the pigs and two of them got to scrapping over an old soft onion, I thought: that’s love. Love is eating. Love is a snarling pig snout and long tusks. Love is the colour of blood. Love is what grown folk do to each other because the law frowns on killing.

Catherynne M. Valente
Six Gun Snow White

letting go

March 19, 2019

At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept and you don’t need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens — that letting go — you let go because you can.

Toni Morrison
Tar Baby

Small Ghost

March 19, 2019

1. it’s been eighty-two days since she last made her bed
2. between trash and clothes, she can’t see the floor
3. she slept next to a pizza box for six nights in a row

at first it was a lack of motivation to do anything

now the mess just makes it easier for her to disappear

Trista Mateer
Small Ghost
Small Ghost Doesn’t Clean Her Room

Secret Self

March 19, 2019

Art attracts us only by what it reveals of our most secret self.

Jean-Luc Godard
Les Amis du Cinéma