Cold glass, how you insert yourself Between myself and myself. I scratch like a cat. The blood that runs is dark fruit– An effect, a cosmetic. You smile. No, it is not fatal. — Sylvia Plath, from “The Other,” The Collected Poems. Edited and introduction by Ted Hughs. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Reprint edition September… Continue reading Sylvia Plath
Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat — Vladimir Nabokov, Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle. (McGraw Hil l1969)
Eurydice I So you have swept me back, I who could have walked with the live souls above the earth, I who could have slept among the live flowers at last; so for your arrogance and your ruthlessness I am swept back where dead lichens drip dead cinders upon moss of ash; so for your… Continue reading H. D.
Things are sweeter when they’re lost. I know—because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly…And when I got it it turned to dust in my hands. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned. (Charles Scribner’s Sons 1922)
You are ice and fire, The touch of you burns my hands like snow. You are cold and flame. You are the crimson of amaryllis, The silver of moon-touched magnolias. When I am with you, My heart is a frozen pond Gleaming with agitated torches. Amy Lowell, “Opal”
The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward. – Colum McCann, Let the Great World Spin. (Random House 23 June 2009)
I lie before you soaked in white orchid, its redolence assails like devil’s fire. And when you sheathe my body with your flame I get drunk from the blood of you, the flame of you. Then, when the new moon mounts black sky, I inhale your breath and pray to you: swallow me alive. —… Continue reading j.b. Bernstein