B is for Bad Poetry, Pamela August Russell
My babies all lined up :)
I’m writing again and I feel my force glow straight from me at its fullest. I’m better company, more of a human being.
—Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 19 June 1924. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
(via awritersruminations)
Mental Drip by Lisa Fisher (me)
Letting thoughts flow
through pen
pencil
keyboard
veins
Onto the canvas of
paper
screen
mind
As it realizes it’s own devices.
A never-ending hail of tumultuous theories
Half-realized epiphanies of a true self or
A martyr masquerading as the lost
(more oft I think it is those who are lost that masquerade as martyrs)
Thoughts once flown are hardly quelled
As the ink is wet, the screen is filled, and
A mind unleashed is a mind chaotic and free.
We don’t have a word for the opposite of loneliness, but if we did, I could say that’s what I want in life. What I’m grateful and thankful to have found at Yale, and what I’m scared of losing when we wake up tomorrow and leave this place.
It’s not quite love and it’s not quite community; it’s just this feeling that there are people, an abundance of people, who are in this together. Who are on your team. When the check is paid and you stay at the table. When it’s four a.m. and no one goes to bed. That night with the guitar. That night we can’t remember. That time we did, we went, we saw, we laughed, we felt. The hats.
— Yale ‘12 graduate Marina Keegan wrote a touching and insightful piece for a special commencement issue of the Yale Daily News. She died in a car crash Saturday. (via drydenlane)
Via drydenlane. I’ll be there!
What happens to the drop of wine
That you pour into the sea?
Does it remain itself, unchanged?
It is as if it never existed.
So it is with the soul: Love drinks it in,
It is united with Truth,
Its old nature fades away,
It is no longer master of itself.
—As air becomes the medium for light when the sun rises by Jacopone da Todi (Jacopone Benedetti)
The Sea of Earth by Lisa Fisher (Me)
Down into the sea of Earth
I am afraid.
I am afraid of things that are afraid of me.
Mind, body, conscience, youth,
Love.
I wear a key around my neck,
Trapped in string.
A key from the journal of a six year old me-
It won’t come off.
Up into the sea of space.
I am afraid.
I am afraid of things that are afraid of me.
Thought, obsession, morality, mortality,
Love.
I wear a gold ring around my finger
Trapped in flesh.
Relics from a life lived but not remembered-
Of love never had, yet still lost.
from Frank O’Hara, “Meditations in an Emergency”
I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I’ll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.
