Lost

April 13, 2020

She stays lost in the middle of her own world somewhere. We can’t get in and she doesn’t come out.

Malorie Blackman
Noughts and Crosses

Haar

January 20, 2020

Under this shroud
anything passes. This mastless drift
of ships dreams turgid wakes
slopped by mud on weed slime
haven walls. In ports, seeped back
to faded maps, steeples disappear. Streets
drain into hidden homes where no-one
fillets scrimshaw scrapes or
rottensmells old bones, fished
from soups in whittled time.
Nothing here
but the haunt.

Beth McDonough

I Am Not Yours

December 19, 2019

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love, put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Sara Teasdale

Portrait

November 21, 2019

I did not have this face I have today,
So calm, so sad, so thin,
Nor these empty eyes,
Nor these bitter lips.

I did not have these weak hands,
So inert, so cold and dead;
I did not have this heart
That doesn’t show itself.

I was not aware of this change,
So simple, so certain, so easy:
-In which mirror has my face been lost?

Benevides Cecília Meireles de Carvalho

Trans. MariGoes

Memories

October 17, 2019

As a young man I was little more than a piece of flotsam on the sea of life. There were girls, women, some passionate, some not. I remember waking beside one naked young woman after a Friday night party in London. I had the vaguest recollection of leaving the party with her inside a cab. But now I didn’t know where the hell I was. I slipped quickly from her bed, gathered up my clothes and escaped to the bathroom without disturbing her.

Memories are built like this: a simple atlas containing maps of the past. The world that touches you is fact and fiction; a strange mix of truth and lies. Because I had lied to the woman, and she had lied to me: it was the way of the world.

That morning, still half-dark, I walked freezing cold streets completely lost. Eventually I came on a milkman and asked him, Where am I? I’m lost.

And he, smiling, said, Finchely Road. Following his directions, I located the Underground station and passage home. God bless the Tube. But milkmen are no more.

I often became lost in Venice. At night I left the wooden shutters open, and night noises would enter my bedroom uninvited: music, passing voices, the wholeness of the city that shimmered on water like a dream.

Then, an earlier time, in Paris. A girl running, her breasts swinging as she ran, her hips swaying. Like the wine in my glass when a tremor runs through it. Memories are nothing more than recordings of laughter, of tears, of momentary passion: they’re like holiday photographs, or footprints in damp sand. They are like bite marks on my body in a rumpled bed.

For [Virginia] Woolf, getting lost was not a matter of geography so much as identity, a passionate desire, even an urgent need, to become no one and anyone, to shake off the shackles that remind you who you are, who others think you are. This dissolution of identity is familiar to travellers in foreign places and remote fastnesses, but Woolf, with her acute perception of the nuances of consciousness, could find it in a stroll down the street, a moment’s solitude in an armchair. Woolf was not a romantic, not a celebrant of that getting lost that is erotic love, in which the beloved becomes an invitation to become who you secretly, dormantly, like a locust underground waiting for the seventeen-year call, already are in hiding, that love for the other that is also a desire to reside in your own mystery in the mystery of others. Her getting lost was solitary, like Thoreau’s.

Rebecca Solnit
Open Door, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

long lost

June 29, 2019

The woods they do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream…

Jack Kerouac
Dharma Bums

At night…

December 26, 2018

Only at night, by myself, alone, forgotten and lost — with no links with reality, no need to participate in anything useful — only then can I find and comfort myself.

Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet

sense of eternity

September 18, 2018

If I lived by the sea I would never be really sad. I get an immense sense of eternity and peace from the ocean. I can lose myself in staring at it hour after hour.

Sylvia Plath
July 1951 letter to Aurelia Plath

A sad fact

July 1, 2018