Harold Sohlberg, Moonlight, 1907

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@forgottendialects
Harold Sohlberg, Moonlight, 1907

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Bluets - Maggie Nelson / Joe Rudi Pielichaty, Un Sedicesimo 40: Blue Skies, Corraini Edizioni, Mantova, 2016Â
I caught my breath and called that life⌠I was pirouette and flourish, I was filigree and flame.
Rita Dove, from âTestimonialâ featured in On the Bus with Rosa Parks: Poems (via watchoutforintellect)
Emilie Buchwald, âMy Motherâs Musicâ
But being lonely and being alone are not the same, and [Elizabeth] Bishop recognized from a young age that there was something special, even salvific, about the latter. âThere is a peculiar quality about being alone, an atmosphere that no sounds or persons can ever give,â she wrote in [her] 1929 essay, âOn Being Alone,â âIt is as if being with people were the Earth of the mind, the land with its hills and valleys, scent and music: but in being alone, the mind finds its Sea, the wide, quiet plane with different lights in the sky and different, more secret sounds.â I understood this sentiment well, the special beauty of the blue hours when you are, by choice, alone, and the candle of your self burns in a way it never quite can when you are with someone else.
Gabrielle Bellot, from âAlone with Elizabeth Bishop,â NYR Daily (20 September 2018)

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âDo they experience the entire cold sorrow acre of human history as one undifferentiated lunatic jabberwocking back and forth from belligerence to tender care?â âAnne Carson, Red Doc>
how objects, like nicknames, stick around long after their sources
how people donât vanish when you stop loving them
â Alina Pleskova, from âI Forget What I Returned For,â published in b l u s h
Oh but Iâm so tiredâ I sometimes think people canât know what they do to me when they ask me to âseeâ them: how they hold me in the scorching light: how I dry & shrivel: how I lie awake at night longing for rest.
The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume Four: 1931-1935 (via salemwitchtrials)
RIP, Linda Gregg
Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect the shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be âhealing.â A certain forward movement will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to âget through it,â rise to the occasion, exhibit the âstrengthâ that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel ourselves the for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.
Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking (via days-of-reading)

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âJohnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano wonât work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still havenât called. This is the everyday we spoke of. Itâs winter again: the skyâs a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heatâs on too high in here and I canât turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, Iâve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kissâwe want more and more and then more of it. But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and Iâm gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that Iâm speechless: I am living. I remember you.â
â Marie Howe, âWhat The Living Doâ (via notebookings)
Oh no, what happened to the line breaks in this poem...?
Anne Carson, âThe Glass Essayâ
Only a dream links me to myselfâ The hazy and belated dream Of what I should have beenâa wall around my abandoned garden.
Fernando Pessoa, from The Scaffold in âA Little Larger Than The Entire Universe: Selected Poemsâ [translated and edited by Richard Zenith] (via adrasteiax)
âAs a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country.â âVirginia Woolf, Three Guineas
âI was made for another planet altogether.â âSimone de Beauvoir, The Woman Destroyed
â(I-woman, escapee)â âHĂŠlène Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa
You want to go back to the boardwalk amusements of your youth and ride, again, the Gravitron, that hulking spaceship that spun like a centrifuge. Thatâs the best you can do for now. Itâs your life. It is spinning, and you are in it.
â Catherine Pierce, from âDaily,â The Girls of Peculiar

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âI think that if you bang your head against the wall trying to create, youâre going to resent the process of creation. Usually when you reach an impasse itâs a signal to move on to another thing. Maybe you havenât slept in a while. Maybe you need some time to ponder, to just stare at the wall. Maybe you need to live, truly be alive for a little and not near a computer. Maybe you need to read, see, watchâto refill your well.â
âFatimah Asghar, in âWilder Forms: Our Fourteenth Annual Look at Debut Poetsâ in the January/February issue of Poets & Writers Magazine (2019); read the extended version on pw.org!