This is where I decided to put my favorite poetry. I thought about putting it in my “About Me” page, but I feel it deserves its own place.
None of these are mine. If you would like to see some of my work, just message me. I’m sure I have some laying around.
In Our Brilliance read by Phoebe-Bishop Wright
This light, she said. This light is heavy. We should get up now, while the light is young and full, and enjoy it.
Maybe walk to town and buy books from Anna. She is home from holiday, you know, and running a special on used books.
Come on, she said. Get up. Sleeping is for the dark, after night falls and breaks an ankle on a graveled road. You are a vespertine child. This I know, she said. You were born with star dust on your skin and a coyote’s howl in your throat. You put on your best dress to go dancing with the shadows. And you look beautiful, twirling with your head thrown back, not caring if the neighbors are watching and pointing and laughing or threatening to call the police.
But you should embrace this light with me. Just this once, she said. If you love me. The ills are back. They found me after tracking my sadness some 400 miles. And they would have given up, had they not heard me singing by the river, a song so wretched the trees could do nothing but pick their bark like scabs and listen. The light was thin that day. And scarce. Barely enough to read by. And the ills knew it, which is why they tried to lure me to death, into my own chalk outline.
So you see, she said. This is dire. This need to be in the light. Combing our hair is not necessary.
© Bianca Stewart
Untitled by Rilke
I’m too alone in the world, yet not alone enough to make each hour holy. I’m too small in the world, yet not small enough to be simply in your presence, like a thing - dark and shrewd.
I want to know my own will and move with it. And I want, in those hushed, sometimes fragile moments, when the nameless draws near, to be among the wise ones - or else alone.
I want to mirror your immensity. I want never to be too weak or too old to bear the heavy, lurching image of you.
I want to unfold. Let no place in me hold itself closed, for where I am closed, I am a lie. I want to stay clear in your sight.
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson
AR out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep; so deep, indeed, that no cable could fathom it: many church steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach from the ground beneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea King and his subjects. We must not imagine that there is nothing at the bottom of the sea but bare yellow sand. No, indeed; the most singular flowers and plants grow there; the leaves and stems of which are so pliant, that the slightest agitation of the water causes them to stir as if they had life. Fishes, both large and small, glide between the branches, as birds fly among the trees here upon land. In the deepest spot of all, stands the castle of the Sea King. Its walls are built of coral, and the long, gothic windows are of the clearest amber. The roof is formed of shells, that open and close as the water flows over them. Their appearance is very beautiful, for in each lies a glittering pearl, which would be fit for the diadem of a queen.
Read the whole story: http://www.hca.gilead.org.il/li_merma.html
You always felt as if you could only fall in love in the summer. That the other times of the year you were too wrapped up in trying not to be yourself that attempting to find someone willing to deal with the buried disaster seemed impossible.
But the summer. Oh the summer. You shed masks with the sunlight. Burned bright yourself while the sky was on fire.
And you found you had so much love to give, to paint over scars you gave yourself, to reach out to paint over someone else’s scars. Even though it all started with you, it most certainly always ended with them.
Feather soft touches and the smell of grass at midnight. Confessions pressed into skin with open-mouthed kisses. The rush of jumping off a bridge into the river below.
It was love so big that it couldn’t be contained. You couldn’t keep it close to you, and eventually it always escaped. Never lasting more than a summer.
(By Stephanie Hartwig. Follow her here)
You smell of lavender
in the Spring
just before the rain falls
あなたは、ラベンダーの香り
春に
雨は降る直前に
(by dormio)
