I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. Nothing more than an empty house, the warm hazy weariness from a day spent setting strawberry runners in the sun, a glass of cool sweet milk, and a shallow dish of blueberries bathed in cream. When one is so tired at the end of a day one must sleep, and at the next dawn there are more strawberry runners to set, and so one goes on living, near the earth. At times like this I’d call myself a fool to ask for more…
— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via girlinlondon)
Under the Volcano, Wallace Stevens
from Adrienne Rich’s “Twenty-One Love Poems”
Your silence today is a pond where drowned things live
I want to see raised dripping and brought into the sun.
It’s not my own face I see there, but other faces,
even your face at another age.
Whatever’s lost there is needed by both of us -
a watch of old gold, a water-blurred fever chart,
a key…Even the silt and pebbles of the bottom
deserve their glint of recognition. I fear this silence,
this inarticulate life. I’m waiting
for a wind that will gently open this sheeted water
for once and show me what I can do
for you, who have often made the unnameable
nameable for others, even for me.
Egon Schiele - Young Trees with Support (1912)
I can even say it,
though only once and it won’t
last: I want this.
I want this.
— Margaret Atwood, “There is only one of everything,” from Circe/Mud Poems (via kvtes)
Do you still perform autopsies on conversations you had lives ago?
— Donte Collins (via modernhepburn)