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paper-wounds

letsbelonelytogetherr

— sylvia plath (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

vexheart

nixscriptum

metamorphesque

musings on poetry Anne Sexton, Victoria Chang, Carl Sandburg, Carl Sandburg, Richard Blanco, Henrik Edoyan, Anne Sexton, Czeslaw Milosz, Richard Blanco, Mary Oliver

metamorphesque

— I Loved You by Alexander Pushkin (translated by A.Z. Foreman)

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"Your Name", Paruyr Sevak (translated by metamorphesque)

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"Sulaaa, I love you. I love you like a madman, like a beast, like a man who is sick. I’m embracing you, touching you, merging with you—and I’m crying. I'm crying. God forbid it should be as unbearably sad for you as it is for me. My beloved, my beloved, my beloved. I’m working very poorly; in fact, I’m not working at all. I will start tomorrow. I need you so much. Don’t disappear. I will always be yours. Don’t do anything foolish—this isn’t jealousy, but brotherly concern. I can’t help you, my dear—unfortunately, just try to get by until the money comes. It’s unthinkable that we won’t meet until spring—I will go mad or take my own life. I’m lying (poetically) when I say I know the color of your name. But I do know for sure what scent you have, and don’t get me started on your taste. My fragrance, I can't live without your scent. Let me, Solomon, fall on your belly and breathe in that scent. Suddenly, I understood—phy-si-cal-ly—how much I desire you, my fe-male… I’m kissing your belly, and I don’t know how I shall fall asleep. I want you. I want you, I want you. I want ... to swear…" from a letter by Paruyr Sevak to Sulamitha, the woman who inspired the poem (translated by Tathev Simonyan)

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Your Unripe Love, Paruyr Sevak (translated by Tathev Simonyan)

petaltexturedskies

Anaïs Nin in a diary entry wr. c. January 1933, from in The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. I: 1931-1934

metamorphesque

What draws me to Egon Schiele's self-portraits is that they almost perfectly capture the disconnect, the struggle for liberation between the body and the soul (or the self?). He masterfully depicts the distorted chaos that arises when the body fights for dominance over the self, while the soul tries to claw its way out of the flesh.

This rupture between body and self doesn't feel like just a stylistic choice — it feels existential. The figure is emaciated, twisted, often staring directly at us with unsettling awareness. It is hyper-aware of its own skin, its own edges, as if trying to understand or escape the limits of its form. The body is no longer a sanctuary but a cage. The soul is no longer a resident but a renegade. Muscles don’t relax; they contract, grip and resist. The hands claw or tremble. The spines bend unnaturally. The eyes accuse, plead and surrender.

It seems as if Schiele didn't just paint himself — he painted the experience of being himself. Of inhabiting a body that often refuses to cooperate with the self’s desires. His self-portraits seem like moments frozen in the act of becoming or unbecoming.

musings on Schiele's Self Portraits