Small-Time Rapture

May 6, 2020

              — after Mary Ann Samyn
                                                               

                                                                         June

Dear Madame —

The turning point was thus:

A mystic came with a styptic gaze, a nervy mercy in the dose
of his testimony, unabridged.

Something winged and patented beat
beneath his skin. A trapped thing tapped.

I felt it during the laying on of hands,
the diagnostic and the blessing.

We grappled with predictions.

Friction and heat revealed the myths
born of fluctuations in the blood,
the membranes storing memories.

I watched the fine figure of his finger
trace the outline of my escape, a hatch

only I could open, the hinges rusted
and needy. The trick was to find

the correct grade of oil, which luster
could bracelet, slip, and seep into
those rough grooves, produce a loosening.

My sluggish ways no longer an option.

The answer is hidden in the rhetoric
of perk and pluck loud-throated.

My goal, my joy, to decipher the glossy reward.

— Your Detective

Sandy Longhorn

swim in the sky

March 18, 2020

Oh, God, I know no joy as great as a moment of rushing into a new love, no ecstasy like that of a new love. I swim in the sky; I float; my body is full of flowers, flowers with fingers giving me acute, acute caresses, sparks, jewels, quivers of joy, dizziness, such dizziness. Music inside of one, drunkenness. Only closing the eyes and remembering, and the hunger, the hunger for more, more, the great hunger, the voracious hunger, and thirst.

Anaïs Nin
The Diary Of Anais Nin (30 May 1934)

Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be awake when everybody else is asleep? Late—it is very late! And yet every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly, almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this queer sensation that you’re a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move about your room. You take something off the dressing-table and put it down again without a sound. And everything, even the bedpost, knows you, responds, shares your secret…

You’re not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. You’re in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again. A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and off again. But now – it’s suddenly dear to you. It’s a darling little funny room. It’s yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine – my own!

Katherine Mansfield
At the Bay

Book Lovers

December 21, 2019

It’s hard for an educated woman to turn her head off. That’s part of the joy of being a submissive. None of the decisions are yours. When you can’t refuse anything and can’t even move, those voices in your head go silent. All you can do, and all you are permitted to do, is feel.

Cherise Sinclair
Dark Citadel

Sea Lullaby

June 16, 2019

The old moon is tarnished
With smoke of the flood,
The dead leaves are varnished
With colour like blood,

A treacherous smiler
With teeth white as milk,
A savage beguiler
In sheathings of silk,

The sea creeps to pillage,
She leaps on her prey;
A child of the village
Was murdered to-day.

She came up to meet him
In a smooth golden cloak,
She choked him and beat him
To death, for a joke.

Her bright locks were tangled,
She shouted for joy,
With one hand she strangled
A strong little boy.

Now in silence she lingers
Beside him all night
To wash her long fingers
In silvery light.

Elinor Wylie

The ache of marriage

October 18, 2018

The ache of marriage:

thigh and tongue, beloved,
are heavy with it,
it throbs in the teeth

We look for communion
and are turned away, beloved,
each and each

It is leviathan and we
in its belly
looking for joy, some joy
not to be known outside it

two by two in the ark of
the ache of it.

Denise Levertov

sadness in everything

September 23, 2018

There was sadness in everything — in the room, in the ringing bird-calls from the garden, in the lit, golden lawn beyond the window, with its single miraculous cherry-tree breaking in immaculate blossom and tossing long foamy sprays against the sky. She was sad to the verge of tears, and yet the sorrow was rich — a suffocating joy.

Rosamond Lehmann
Dusty Answer

love like a fire

September 20, 2018

He uses me – uses all of me so I am lit and glowing with love like a fire, and this is all I looked for all my life – to be able to give of my love, my spontaneous joy, unreservedly, with no holding back for fear of his misuse, betrayal.

Sylvia Plath
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath: entry dated 6th April 1958

A wild thrill

July 29, 2018

She was darkness and he was darkness and there had never been anything before this time, only darkness and his lips upon her. She tried to speak and his mouth was over hers again. Suddenly she had a wild thrill such as she had never known; joy, fear, madness, excitement, surrender to arms that were too strong, lips too bruising, fate that moved too fast.

Margaret Mitchell
Gone with the Wind