Words

November 30, 2019

Language games, playing with language. Using the dictionary is fun. Words play leapfrog with each other. Letters disappear. And, unexpectedly, poems appear…

Poetry’s all very well
but it rhymes and scans, its lines
strap you into carved Imperial chairs, tie you
to the headboard of a four-poster bed. What I need
is words that never sleep, a futuristic babble, glossolalia
ancient words that only unborn babies understand, pure sound.

Nancy Mattson

poets

November 16, 2019

We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.

John Fowles
The French Lieutenant’s Woman

I dreamed what you dreamed

November 9, 2019

We live and breathe words….It was books that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone. They could be honest with me, and I with them. Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its colours and textures and sounds, I felt – I felt the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. I felt I was dreaming and thinking and feeling with you. I dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted – and then I realized that truly I just wanted you.

Cassandra Clare
Clockwork Prince

Coal

November 5, 2019

I
Is the total black, being spoken
From the earth’s inside.
There are many kinds of open.
How a diamond comes into a knot of flame
How a sound comes into a word, coloured
By who pays what for speaking.

Some words are open
Like a diamond on glass windows
Singing out within the crash of passing sun
Then there are words like stapled wagers
In a perforated book — buy and sign and tear apart —
And come whatever wills all chances
The stub remains
An ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.
Some words live in my throat
Breeding like adders. Others know sun
Seeking like gypsies over my tongue
To explode through my lips
Like young sparrows bursting from shell.
Some words
Bedevil me.

Love is a word another kind of open —
As a diamond comes into a knot of flame
I am black because I come from the earth’s inside
Take my word for jewel in your open light.

Audre Lorde

My need is for poetry

October 31, 2019

My need is for poetry,
the burning magic of words
that awaken unguessed at emotion –
and understanding,
sometimes only partial.
I need poetry,
its vivid colours firing imagination
and opening the souls of us all.

P

Words

October 29, 2019

May I write words more naked than flesh,
stronger than bone

Anne Carson
If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho

She wrote her words

October 29, 2019

She wrote that her fingers became so many sable brushes on his skin, a subtle interlacing of sensations, creating even greater desire. She wrote that her hands were the tools of a sculptress, engraving tenderness in the clay of his body. She wrote that his mouth, like the poet’s pen, tenderly grazed the vellum of her skin in rhymes of intense pleasure. She wrote her words like torrid and obscene passage from a never-ending novel – sensual, voluptuous, furious. She wrote the words and they became…her lover.

Wolf Woman

October 1, 2019

I’m trying to evolve into all wolf all the time. It seems possible if I let go of the idea of my body, if I fall into my dream headfirst, if I accept words as signals more than language, if my love sounds like a howl in the forest – doesn’t it already?

Chelsea Hodson,

Artist Statement, Tonight I’m Someone Else: Essays

Letters to Strangers

September 12, 2019

This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me.

— Emily Dickinson

We write our letters to strangers, to you who will turn
the corner of the page to stumble upon a garden of poem
or this epistolary plain, write letters rooted in nuances
of the commonplace of our every day living where you
may plant yourself and perhaps lift the eyes, furrow
the brow, or tum lips upward into a sheepish smile,
maybe scratch the head or nod or not, bare feet propped
up on a fat pillow on a hard table top, to you thinking
perhaps about a lost child or safe return home, some
forgotten kiss or one you wish you had given freely,
that job you took on or wished you never had, that song
whose lyrics fleet in and out of a quiet afternoon or
disturb sleep, even those large lettered signs you lifted in
protest or others you did not heed and thought you would
or should, all while sipping a sweetened tea or rounding
a whiskey glass rim with lemon peel, fingers pressed
to temple, mind hovering or darting off from these letters
to strangers, clearing a way from the maze of the page,
letters trying speak to you, calling to you to stay a little
longer, to come here, come in a little closer, force your
ear to the earth of words straining to burst into bloom
just for you.

Andrena Zawinski