Anna Quindlen, Being Perfect
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Anna Quindlen, Being Perfect
âMost of the time the universe speaks to us very quietly: In pockets of silence; In coincidences; In nature; In forgotten memories; In the shape of clouds; In moments of solitude; In small tugs at our heartsâ
â Yumi Sakugawa (via fotoartiste)
the well by mia morgalla
water as an entity, water as singular;     two streams forms a river      & feeds the ocean, an embittered yielding. fury in waves.      a gnarled elder tree unfolded, emptied. plundered.      exhaustion, a theft scooped out of your chest. light exposes everything.     so you hide under darkness.         the whites of your eyes; your only tell. you, switched. a two panelled mirror.   finger-pressed into divergence;      face indistinct, morphed. youâre a void force-fed into      human body. skin-changer, tender for a day but renewed until new moon.     nightshade flower tipped back. you swallow & lungs bloom violet-indigo,     night garden. honeyed peach like the colour of your tongue.   innocuous poison, fed      through white lies. chess master & chess piece;      the board a battlefield under your spell. each step, a mine threat.      half a smile,     shadows masks the other half. conformity synonymous to resentment;     human until necessary. - aquarian changeling for @flowercryptid (aavillainess)
I am made of
ruptured muscle
and charred bone,
half formed poetry and
anatomy that misfires,
always subsisting on the ichor
drained from anotherâs vein
because my own has never
flared gold enough.
*
I once recreated wings
of wax and feather,
flew to Helios and
begged him to let me fall,
he lifted his hands and told me
that hope is the armour
of fragile things,
sent me tumbling back to earth
with sunlight flooding through
my brittle skeleton,
I crashed and the rays
radiated out
from my splintered form,
I watched in awe as woven gold
grew over every fracture.
*
I had never shone bright enough,
a dulled soul, always reticent.
But I almost perished
in the space
where ocean meets sand,
and learned great wisdom from it.
*
All these things
that make me
fragile and flawed
have also turned me
to golden light.
*
And this darkness can
hold me no longer.
*
âl.j.h
From sudden beginnings, I was the fire in the moonâs bitter blood. Each breath enough to tear through the sky. Â I am a crimson body of thunder, born skinless And thrown into the earthâs fevered womb. Â An uninvited dawn: bold and effervescent, Forcing starlight to take shelter. Â I like to imagine my fingertips Spreading life along the muted sky, Delivering virtue in droplets of morning dew. Â Instead, I scorch the very sanctity of sunrise, And she perishes beneath my feet. The calm of the morning fades in my throatâ Bitter, burning, never to return.
poeticallyordinary, On my scorching existence (via poeticallyordinary)
I used to cringe so hard at my âIâm not like other girlsâ phase until I realized that most girls have this phase and what we actually mean is, âIâm not a thoughtless one-dimensional caricature of makeup and boobs, which is all Iâve been taught to believe girls are.â How can women be viewed so poorly that little girls everywhere all think theyâre unique just for having independent thoughts and interests?
oh shit
how is it put so perfectly just into words like that, like, just
how
Iâm not trying to say I love you, but once upon a time I was not afraid of car accidents. Played Tasmanian devil to the speed limitâs mile count & flung traffic tickets like summer sparklers. But when you get in the next seat my brake pedal stops working. This metal bullet caging our soft bodies becomes an electric tableau of desire. Iâd halo the earth âtil meteor arrival to prove you are beautiful under any light, anywhere in the world. You smile & the equator shrinks to a gold ring the size of a shared life. You smile & suddenly the highway merges lanes between does he & love me. Suddenly there is nothing holding my body except the thought of your hands in my hands. Suddenly my hands are not hands but precise apex of thumb & knuckle seatbelting our heart lines in case this collision proves fatal. Iâm not trying to say I love you. All Iâm saying is, forget the stick shift. We are not bound to gravel or gravity. Forget the space ship. With just our bodies we can head off the highest cliff on the furthest moonlit valley. I will keep you safe with every part of me that exists, & when all else fails, I will keep your heart safe with nothing but my fingers around it.
âWhat They Wonât Teach You in Driving Schoolâ, Natalie Wee
Find my debut book, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines, on Amazon / Goodreads.
(via natalieweepoetry)
On the way back, you asked why it took me so long to say I love you. Well, have you ever broken a bone? I mean an arm, a leg, a finger. You know that second right after impact? The snap. The sickening lurch of a missing stair & the perfect enclosure of shock after. How, in that instant, thereâs no discomfort. Hurt hasnât yet arrived, but vows a stay so exquisite youâll bite clean through your tongue. Your heartâs already prepared for this. Exiles itself from that landmine body, burns an effigy at the roof of your mouth. Mind follows its lead, plays dead possum. It doesnât work. It refuses to & then the ice pickâs twist. Fleet as a showfighterâs left hook. In the moment it is purest, pain denies speech. Teeth turns on tongue. Nails on knuckle. Body unmakes itself. Itâs the first time you realize what it means to be flesh. All this time, I was living inside that moment. I couldnât talk about it. I was waiting, but the shaking didnât pass. I donât think it will.
Natalie Wee, from âCartilageâ, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines (via natalieweepoetry)
            It is not the moonâs light that demands our praise    but the distance it travels                    to reach us.
Natalie Wee, âAsami Writes to Korra for Three Yearsâ in Wildness Journal
This heart, my heart, is small and the love, my love, is large. It travels in the wind, descends, loosens a pomegranate then falls in the wandering of two almond eyes, then ascends in the dawn of two dimples and forgets the way back to house and name. This heart, my heart, is small and the love is large âŠ
Mahmoud Darwish, from âTuesday And The Weather Is Clear,â If I Were Another (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011). (via existential-celestial)
âDonât you agree with me that there exist special, chosen people who have been endowed with the power and faculty of desiring a thing, craving for a thing, willing a thingâso persistently and soâso inexorablyâthat at last it has to happen? Donât you believe that?â
Henrik Ibsen, from âThe Master Builder,â written c. January 1893
at the subatomic level
every thought
is passing waves,
penetrating silence
with a blink,
moonstruck words
cling like cobwebs
of the throat,
moments felt
as seasons
slow and rustic
âflowers I wanted to bring to you, wild and wet from the pale dunes and still smelling of the summer nightâŠâ (Mary Oliver)
Vincent Van Gogh: Flowers + Blue
Sunset
Under a setting sun the colour of buttermilk The green horizon becomes turquoise hued As delicate clouds as fragile as ripening fruit Deepen to succulent cherry red and purple grape
Before the cerulean sky of day is bruised And verdant fields become blackened Like charcoal left over by a roaring fire, A brief gold like the final glorious trumpet And then nothing but drifting embers.
O! What colours there are here Painting this infinite canvas of the sky
Infinite hues, infinite shades More brilliant, more vivid Than all the television sets In all the living rooms Of the cold grey towns and cities.
© R.J. Davey 2018