Sharing secrets

January 22, 2020

“Secrets have power,” Widget begins. “And that power diminishes when they are shared, so they are best kept and kept well. Sharing secrets, real secrets, important ones, with even one other person, will change them.”

Erin Morgenstern

The Night Circus

autumn

January 6, 2020

A forest in autumn taught me the secret of all secrets.
Complete surrender, death, and rebirth.

Anna de Noailles
A Forest In Autumn
trans. Jethro Bithell

For Woman, in her weakness, is yet the strongest force upon the earth. She is the helm of all things human; she comes in many shapes and knocks at many doors; she is quick and patient, and her passion is not ungovernable like that of man, but as a gentle steed that she can guide e’en where she will, and as occasion offers can now bit up and now give rein. She has a captain’s eye, and stout must be that fortress of the heart in which she finds no place of vantage. Does thy blood beat fast in youth? She will outrun it, nor will her kisses tire. Art thou set toward ambition? She will unlock thy inner heart, and show thee roads that lead to glory. Art thou worn and weary? She has comfort in her breast. Art thou fallen? She can lift thee up, and to the illusion of thy sense gild defeat with triumph. Ay, Harmachis, she can do these things, for Nature ever fights upon her side; and while she does them she can deceive and shape a secret end in which thou hast no part. And thus Woman rules the world. For her are wars; for her men spend their strength in gathering gains; for her they do well and ill, and seek for greatness, to find oblivion. But still she sits like yonder Sphinx, and smiles; and no man has ever read all the riddle of her smile, or known all the mystery of her heart. Mock not! mock not! Harmachis; for he must be great indeed who can defy the power of Woman, which, pressing round him like the invisible air, is often strongest when the senses least discover it.

H. Rider Haggard
Cleopatra

our bodies speak

July 13, 2019

Secrets are my currency: I deal in them for a living. The secrets of desire, of what people really want,  and of what they fear the most.  The secrets of why love is difficult,  sex complicated, living painful and death so close and yet placed far away. Why are pleasure and punishment closely related? How do our bodies speak? Why do we make ourselves ill? Why do you want to fail? Why is pleasure hard to bear?

Hanif Kureishi
Something to tell you

She wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes. She spoke to no one. She spent hours on the riverbank. She smoked cigarettes and had midnight swims…

Arundhati Roy
The God of Small Things

a place filled with secrets

February 19, 2019

My poetic life started before I was even born, I believe, but really I’ve been a working poet for about a decade. As a child, I’d notice things the other children didn’t; I saw the world as a place filled with secrets, in-between colours, textures, whispers, and hidden spaces. I could make a world out of the smallest moment. I still do. Being a poet feels like having two bodies — one in this world, and one in some other. Does this sound like you?

Lisa Marie Basile
If You Want To Become a poet

our secrets

February 14, 2019

After each night we are emptier: our mysteries and our grief’s have leaked away into our dreams. Thus sleep’s labour not only diminishes the power of our thought, but even that of our secrets.

E.M. Cioran
A Short History of Decay

Artifacts

October 29, 2018

Exploring a dead relative’s dusty attic. Ghosts here crying over lost love letters, or the two porcelain dolls with putting red mouths, the ballerina shoes, the tinsel Christmas decorations from another age, the ancient travel brochures, and a broken egg-timer. Boxes of secrets. A chaos endured to maintain secrecy, these pieces of a life, of a soul, the hopes, the desires, the dreams unfulfilled and discarded here in the shadows. Christ, it is so disheartening.

Time for a poem instead:

A Faith, Rotting

She wore the kind of cross necklace
you would find in a bargain box,
the holy rejects of sacrilegious salesgirls,
their pearls undulating, effulgent.
She didn’t care that the gold shed
itself into a bastard green, branded
and belligerent against her pale
butterfly of a throat. To her, there
was a beautiful irony in the decay
of something so consecrated by
sadness. To her, there was no
religion without the ululation of
a mother’s lamentation, rotting
into romance, idolatry in the
immaculate inferiority: a necklace
losing sight of heaven faster than
she did the night God weighed
her losses, wrote them into being.

Megan Mealor

those wild eyes

October 6, 2018

When you look at me with those wild eyes I feel that I could tell you things that I would never breathe to another human being.

Katherine Mansfield
A Dill Pickle

The Mist

August 5, 2018

I should keep up with the news
but my wifi is out of control
so I am cutting it up
slicing it into quarters of my life.
Less and less of you
more and more of me.
I disrupt my life on purpose
and see through the mist.
Who can ever give you
all you want? Not one
person. I never met
that person so I find it
within myself and
marry myself. I’m
cheating on my husband
with myself. He knows it
too. I can touch myself
and cum in seconds. No
rendez-vous, no dates.
I can believe in myself
and not others’ version
of me. Even if I have twenty-four
hours to live
I can stare at a ceiling in silence
I have plenty of practice.
I will take my secrets to
the grave. No one
can love me the way
I want. So I will continue
talking to myself, write
poems to myself, letters
to myself, read, go to
bookstores, museums,
walk my dog, create a
new self, bury the old one.
I have so many selves
I gave up on, so many
I believed in. Luckily,
I love my own company
and loneliness and being alone
are not to be confused.
I know that writing
is my best company.
And I look forward to
the mist
and human touch
always
look forward to moments
and hours to be relived
in my mind.
I look forward to being
me in all my selves.

Christina Strigas