#lynn emanuel

[violettesiren]

I am tired of the tundra of the mind, where a few shabby thoughts hunker around a shabby fire. All day from my window I watch girls and boys hanging out in the dark arcades of adolescent desire.

Tonight, everything is strict with cold, the houses closed, the ice botched by skaters. I am tired of saying things about the world, and yet, sometimes, these streets are so slick and bold they remind me of the wet

zinc bar at the Café Marseilles, and suddenly the sea is green and lust is everywhere in a red cravat, leaning on his walking stick and whispering, I am a city, you are my pilgrim, meet me this evening. Love, Pierre.

And so I have to get up and walk downstairs just to make sure the city’s still secure in its leafless and wintery slime and it still is and yet somewhere on that limitless, starlit seacoast of my past,

Pierre’s red tie burns like a small fire. And all at once my heart stumbles like a drunken sailor, and I am adrift in the bel aujourd’hui of Pittsburgh.

Inspiration by Lynn Emanuel

[woundgallery]

Lynn Emanuel 

[lillyli-74]

I am so tired I could lie down among the trees until I was nothing.

~ Lynn Emanuel

[skymorii]

Vincent van Gogh, poppy field, 1890.

[mortalpractice]

Like Jonas by the fish was I received by it, swung and swept in its dark waters, driven to the deeps by it and beyond many rocks. Without any touching of its teeth, I tumbled into it with no more struggle than a mote of dust entering the door of a cathedral, so muckle were its jaws. How heel over head was I hurled down the broad rod of its throat, stopped inside its chest wide as a hall, and like Jonas I stood up asking where the beast was and finding it nowhere, there in grease and sorrow I build my bower. ---Lynn Emanuel, “My Life,” published in The New York Times Magazine

[allyourprettywords]

“Sonnetesque,” Lynn Emanuel

I love its smallness: as though our whole town were a picture postcard and our feelings were on vacation: ourselves in mini- ature, shopping at tiny sales, buying the newspapers--small and pale and square as sugar cubes--at the fragile, little curb. The way the streetlight is really a table lamp where now we sit and where real night, (which is very tall and black and at our backs), where for a moment the night is forced to bend down and look through these tiny windows, forced to come closer and put its hand on our shoulder and stoop over the book to read the fine print.

[whisperthatruns]

Without any touching of its teeth, I tumbled into it with no more struggle than a mote of dust entering the door of a cathedral, [...]

Lynn Emanuel, from “My Life”

[elucubrare]