My heart is spilled open; words refuse to bounce and settle. No writing. Everything disappears but the feel of utter equilibrium between fractured echoes. I dig for a name under the shadow of this feeling; the intention is sparkling but I am incapable of disturbing the silence. I am at peace and I wonder not… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
The darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life. — Sylvia Plath, from “Three Women,” The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath. Edited by Ted Hughes (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Reprint edition, September 2, 2008) Originally published 1981.
The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? — Oscar Wilde, De Profundis. (Fontamara, September 12th 1993) Originally published 1905.
Skunk Hour For Elizabeth Bishop Nautilus Island’s hermit heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage; her sheep still graze above the sea. Her son’s a bishop. Her farmer is first selectman in our village; she’s in her dotage. Thirsting for the hierarchic privacy of Queen Victoria’s century, she buys up all the eyesores… Continue reading Robert Lowell
No one sings as purely as those who inhabit the deepest hell—what we take to be the song of angels is their song. — Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena. (Schocken; Rev Upd edition April 7, 1990)
What can I do with this memory? Shake the bones out of it? — Anne Sexton, from “Waking Alone,” The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Houghton Mifflin, 1981)
For you I undress down to the sheaths of my nerves. I remove my jewelry and set it on the nightstand, I unhook my ribs, spread my lungs flat on a chair. I dissolve like a remedy in water, in wine. I spill without staining, and leave without stirring the air. I do it for… Continue reading Kim Addonizio