2nd May 12
Viens sur mon coeur, âme cruelle et sourde,
Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents;
Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants
Dans l’épaisseur de ta crinière lourde;
Dans tes jupons remplis de ton parfum
Ensevelir ma tête endolorie,
Et respirer, comme une fleur flétrie,
Le doux relent de mon amour défunt.
Je veux dormir! dormir plutôt que vivre!
Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort,
J’étalerai mes baisers sans remords
Sur ton beau corps poli comme le cuivre.
Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés
Rien ne me vaut l’abîme de ta couche;
L’oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche,
Et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers.
À mon destin, désormais mon délice,
J’obéirai comme un prédestiné;
Martyr docile, innocent condamné,
Dont la ferveur attise le supplice,
Je sucerai, pour noyer ma rancoeur,
Le népenthès et la bonne ciguë
Aux bouts charmants de cette gorge aiguë
Qui n’a jamais emprisonné de coeur.
— Charles Baudelaire
29th April 12
weisse wiese: in the library, by charles simic
weissewiese:
There’s a book called
‘A Dictionary of Angels’.
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered
That angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.
Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.
She’s very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.
(via prettybooks)
27th March 12
proustitute:
Ukrainian Orthodox Church of St. Volodymyr’s (via)
“I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak
of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say
is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise.”
— Ilya Kaminsky, from “Author’s Prayer“
"To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go."
12th March 12
Mary Oliver, from “In Blackwater Woods” (via proustitute)
6th March 12
À la très chère, à la très belle
Qui remplit mon coeur de clarté,
À l’ange, À l’idole immortelle,
Salut en l’immortalité!
Elle se répand dans ma vie
Comme un air imprégné de sel,
Et dans mon âme inassouvie
Verse le goût de l’éternel.
Sachet toujours frais qui parfume
L’atmosphère d’un cher réduit,
Encensoir oublié qui fume
En secret à travers la nuit,
Comment, amour incorruptible,
T’exprimer avec vérité?
Grain de musc qui gis, invisible,
Au fond de mon éternité!
À la très bonne, à la très belle
Qui fait ma joie et ma santé,
À l’ange, à l’idole immortelle,
Salut en l’immortalité!
— Charles Baudelaire
"The pact between page and voice is different from the compact of voice and body. The voice opens the body. … The page wants proof, but bonds. The body cannot keep the voice. It spills."
12th February 12
Rosmarie Waldrop, from Reluctant Gravities (via proustitute)
4th February 12
THE FRUIT of all the service that I serve
Despair doth reap; such hapless hap have I.
But though he have no power to make me swerve,
Yet by the fire for cold I feel I die.
In paradise for hunger still I sterve,
And in the flood for thirst to death I dry;
So Tantalus am I, and in worse pain,
Amidst my help that helpless doth remain.
1st February 12
Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
D’une femme inconnue, et que j’aime, et qui m’aime,
Et qui n’est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même
Ni tout à fait une autre, et m’aime et me comprend.
Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur transparent
Pour elle seule, hélas! cesse d’être un problème
Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême,
Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant.
Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse? Je l’ignore.
Son nom? Je me souviens qu’il est doux et sonore,
Comme ceux des aimés que la vie exila.
Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,
Et, pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a
L’inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.
—Paul Verlaine
5th January 12
FOR want of will in woe I plain,
Under colour of soberness;
Renewing with my suit my pain,
My wanhope with your steadfastness.
Awake therefore of gentleness; 5
Regard, at length, I you require,
My swelting pains of my desire.
Betimes who giveth willingly,
Redoubled thanks aye doth deserve;
And I that sue unfeignedly, 10
In fruitless hope, alas! do sterve.
How great my cause is for to swerve,
And yet how steadfast is my suit,
Lo, here ye see: where is the fruit?
As hound that hath his keeper lost, 15
Seek I your presence to obtain;
In which my heart delighteth most,
And shall delight though I be slain.
You may release my band of pain;
Loose then the care that makes me cry 20
For want of help, or else I die.
I die though not incontinent;
By process, yet consumingly,
As waste of fire which doth relent:
If you as wilful will deny. 25
Wherefore cease of such cruelty,
And take me wholly in your grace;
Which lacketh will to change his place.
—Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42)
28th December 11
gingerandtwinkle:
i remember learning to use a coffee maker for the first time
in oakland, when the sunrise was molten on the edges of the hills
and turned the kitchen floor into sun-puddles
and bacon was a special breakfast
my grandmother let me stand on tip-toe and pour the water in
it was cold through the glass of the carafe
and she smelled of unscented hand lotion as she reached around me
to program the brew.
i would marvel at the bacon snapping in its own juices
and at the burbling of the coffee maker
while we talked.
i remember learning that if my dad was grinding beans
for a second cup of coffee before he left for work
i could stand in the kitchen and tell him just about anything
and he would listen
until the timer went off and he pressed down the filter.
he would kiss my head when he walked out the door.
if he offered me a sip, i would taste the smell of it all day long.
it was his smell, sharp and warm,
i can’t decide if i drink coffee just to keep
tenderness and pictures like these close at hand
weapons against defeat and adulthood
or if i keep drinking it down, waiting to find
at the bottom of this cup
a friend
someone who smells like coffee too
who will talk in silence
and watch the light with me.
