You are the music while the music lasts

Adventures of the poetic kind, curated by waugh-and-peace.

[antigonick]

So wrap up care in a cobweb and drop it down the well into that world inverted where left is always right, where the shadows are really the body, where we stay awake all night, where the heavens are shallow as the sea is now deep, and you love me.

Elizabeth Bishop, excerpt of Insomnia (via shrinemaidens)

[variste]

Love Songs - Mina Loy (Others, 1915) 

[adventures-of-the-blackgang]

Lewis Carroll loathes the sea

There are certain things—as a spider, a ghost, The income tax, gout, an umbrella for three— That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most Is a thing they call the sea. Pour some saltwater over the floor— Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be: Suppose it extended a mile or more, That’s very like the sea. Beat a dog till he howls outright— Cruel, but all very well for a spree: Suppose that he did so day and night, That would be like the sea. I had a vision of nursery maids; Tens of thousands passed by me— All leading children with wooden spades, And this was by the sea. Who invented those spades of wood? Who was it cut them out of the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could— Or one that loved the sea. It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float With “thoughts as boundless, and souls as free”: But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat, How do you like the sea? There is an insect that people avoid (Whence is derived the verb “to flee”). Where have you been by it most annoyed? In lodgings by the sea. If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, A decided hint of salt in your tea, And a fishy taste in the very eggs— By all means choose the sea. And if, with these dainties to drink and eat, You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, And a chronic state of wet in your feet, Then—I recommend the sea. For I have friends who dwell by the coast— Pleasant friends they are to me! It is when I am with them I wonder most That anyone likes the sea. They take me a walk: though tired and stiff, To climb the heights I madly agree; And, after a tumble or so from the cliff, They kindly suggest the sea. I try the rocks, and I think it cool That they laugh with such an excess of glee, As I heavily slip into every pool That skirts the cold, cold sea.

Lapham’s Quarterly >

[verite-vraie]

It is a deep-rooted far stirring in strong shadow kingdoms and ripens among the slow rustle of that midnight orchard whose woven branches are soft, plump or stretching, are too small to dream of, myriad, intercellular; in timid contact of whose slow rhythmic fingers are woven the proud worlds. Cathedral caverns in not glinting limestone water there changing always the fretted hollow curves; high vaulted arches of the uncharted cellars, and, it is a discovery, too large for a short stride too steep, there pass downwards beneath them these narrow and stone stairs. But now rest yourself a moment, and lean on the great pillars, feel how in darkness they hum softly holding the lit palace and hearing riot in the halls. Men come here often with lanterns carefully, looking over their shoulders and feeling it something of an expedition to choose just the one vintage that is called for. Also on occasions they unbrick old archways and there lie guarded the rich tawny secret potions; they that were buried in an autumn long past; are ruby, are precious, aged now, potent, secure. Strike a light before we go on; we need, rather, the same assurance and yellow courage of your candle. Guard him well however do not let him peer from your fist too rashly at the groining there is a strong and cold wind up the stairs. Let us descend now but carefully, they are high steps and steep, for walking. After a dozen of them there is an even darkness that has waited so long it is not a light thing to disturb, and they go on down beyond that, it is not easy to imagine what we might see if we were holding a light house in our hands. Might there not be - might there not - the unchained the insane perspective the no end and your cry recoiling - ah, I can quite imagine you saying it, with an air of apocalyptic and desperate capability, sincerity, security almost - ‘The low roof goes down, the stairs arriving proudly at no final pinpoint fo straight down only, down always.’

Song of the amateur psychologist, William Empson (1926)

[verite-vraie]

In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the rain gathers and the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and in every crevice of the rotten wood grow weasel’s eyes like molluscs, their lids open and shut with the tide. But do not put your hand down to see, because in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the trapped leaves and the beak and the laced weasel’s eyes, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible written in the language of rooks. But do not put your hand down to see, because in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are holes the length of a man’s arm where the weasels are trapped and the letters of the rook language are laced on the sodden leaves, and at the bottom there is a man’s arm. But do not put your hand down to see, because in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and if you ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the sharp grass till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with it again.

Hugh Sykes Davies, Poem (c.1935)

[verite-vraie]

Anecdote Of 2 a.m.

‘Why was she lost?’ my darling said aloud With never a movement in her sleep. I lay Awake and watched her breathe, remote and proud.

Her words reached out where I could never be. She dreamed a world remote from all I was. ‘Why was she lost?’ She was not asking me.

I knew that there was nothing I could say. She breathed and dreamed beyond our kisses’ sphere. My watchful night was her unconscious day.

I could not tell what dreams disturbed her heart. She spoke, and never knew my tongue was tied. I longed to bless her but she lay apart.

That was our last night, if I could have known. But I remember still how in the dark She dreamed her question and we lay alone.

[aseaofquotes]

[verite-vraie]

Emily Dickinson, “Ghosts”

[sword-punk]

To read a work of literature as an expression of heterosexual desire is literary criticism; to read it as an expression of homosexual desire is ‘appropriation’ or ‘prurience.’ Associating it with something in one’s own love life is either ‘conscripting a writer for the cause’ (gay) or ‘demonstrating its universal relevance’ (straight).

Graham Robb telling it like it is in “Strangers: Homosexual Love in the Nineteenth Century” (via shakesqueers)

[wildlinging]

Dylan Thomas

[verite-vraie]

When I’m happy, I can smile twice at the same time. So thin—a marker-tip line with a waxy shine— a vein of a maple leaf, a dog’s upper lip, arm of anemone. Of all the magical plants and animals in the sea, the hagfish is the most unpopular, the most horrifying— the one that makes children burst into tears. And if that isn’t enough, it is the only fish without vertebrae, so it can tie itself into a knot to bulge out and pop the small mouths of fish that dare to eat it. Don’t you admire the clever slip and wriggle? Don’t you think its nerves are left a little more electric after she is caught? Sometimes, if you put an ear to the dark slash between my hip bones, you can hear a soft hum. Pretend it’s a skit of bees in late spring.

Self-Portrait as C-Section Scar - Aimee Nezhukumatathil

[gnossienne]

Maya Angelou, “Human Family” from I Shall Not Be Moved: Poems (1990)

[lookingattheskyy]

the stag and the quiver | richard siken

1 Once there was a deer called stag. A white breasted, a many pointed. He refused to still when he halted, the hooves in his mind were always lifted. Everything comes close, the branches slide. In a clearing made of cleavings, stag sees another stag. They watch each other, they share no story. I will not cross you and you must move on. There is nothing else. It reminds me of some tale, stay with me to remember, it reminds me of where I was going without you.

2 The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. The trees imagine they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The arrows: they have no imagination.

All night the wind blows through the trees. It makes a sound. The hunter’s son watches the hunter. The hunter paints more rings on his glasses. Everything is a target, says the hunter. No matter where you look. The hunter’s son says nothing, and closes his eyes.

3 The hunter’s son watches the stag.

Clench is a hand word. His hand is clenched. Door with a bad hinge, it wouldn’t open. Do not let go of the arrow, let it slip through your fingers as you relax your grip. This is good advice. He couldn’t do it. There is no way to get to the future from here.

The key to archery is sustained attention. An arrow is a stick with feathers, an extension of the mind. Men and their thoughts, their quivers and their arrows: it helps to see how these things move, and where they land.

The stag watches the hunter’s son.

4 This is a story of loops, at least one. I stepped off the loop. I spent time listening, testing realms. I snapped a twig in my head and struck out. You know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so forgiveness.

All night the trees stand silent in the dark, not touching.

I put on the deer suit. I turned my ears in all directions. I’ll live alone or in between. This is the testimony of the deer: solitude, the long corridors, love from a distance. You asked me once, What are we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made of. One house, two house. The road goes away from here.

[verite-vraie]

Too many of the best cells in my body are itching, feeling jagged, turning raw in this spring chill. It’s two thousand and four and I don’t know a soul who doesn’t feel small among the numbers. Razor small. Look down these days to see your feet mistrust the pavement and your blood tests turn the doctor’s expression grave. Look up to catch eclipses, gold leaf, comets, angels, chandeliers, out of the corner of your eye, join them if you like, learn astrophysics, or learn folksong, human sacrifice, mortality, flying, fishing, sex without touching much. Don’t trouble, though, to head anywhere but the sky.

"Of Mutability" - Jo Shapcott

[arkoftheache]

Robert Crawford - Luna Moth

The striking Luna moth emerges from its cocoon without a mouth because its short life will be devoted entirely to reproduction.                 

                               — Plonk’s Moths and Butterflies

Although I can’t know what the now Of moths without a mouth might be, I hope they are content with how Design ensures posterity: 

The organ of their larval duty— Consuming every leaf in sight— Effaced for purposes of beauty That serves a different appetite.

I trust they just desire to merge. I’d hate to think that, in despair, They’d have this sudden gnawing urge To open up what isn’t there.

[happierman]

Where is the fuckyeahcarolannduffy tumblr?

[theunquotables]

Physics says: go to sleep. Of course you’re tired. Every atom in you has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes nonstop from mitosis to now. Quit tapping your feet. They’ll dance inside themselves without you. Go to sleep. Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch by inch America is giving itself to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch. You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep. Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow, Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle, Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town and History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.

Albert Goldbarth, The Sciences Sing a Lullabye (via theunquotables)

[fables-of-the-reconstruction-de]

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time.

W.H. Auden, The More Loving One  (via mirroir)