“It was August. She was laughing, she felt carefree, her arms were bare and soft, and she had white stockings under her short dress.”
— D.H. Lawrence, from Classic Works of D.H. Lawrence; “The Captain’s Doll,”
Etikett: poetry
“Why must the razor feel like passion on your thigh?”
— Radhika Sarpotdar, from “Attack of the Pa(nic/ssion),” published in Inside the Bell Jar
She remembers vague memories of her long lost lover while she bathes herself in honey water and eats freshly picked plump red cherries. Her skin shines in the beams of sunlight like how the water of the Nile river in Luxor glistens on a hot summer day in July, her eyes luminesces like gold flakes in mines and she had lips of Damask rose.
Shall you kiss me tomorrow? Yes, yes, yes. I cannot bear being without you.
Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vanessa Bell written c. August 1908
“You are gone.
I hibernated under the covers last night, not sleeping until dawn…You are gone.”— Anne Sexton, from “Eighteen Days Without You” (December 1st) in The Complete Poems
How my soul
is born and dies
at the same time.
Julia de Burgos, from Song of the Simple Truth; “This Destiny Mine,”
Sweet, punish me.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from The Collected Poems; “A Drama of Exile,”
You see, my grief is like bottomless well,
snarled ivy climbing my bones, making
an abandoned house out of my body.—
Ailey O’Toole, from “Here Are The Secrets I’ve Kept,” published in Rose Quartz
“I have wrung my hands and cried over no love all winter long.”
—
Anne Sexton – from a letter to James Dickey featured in Anne Sexton: A Biography
But I have a compelling urge to leave the country and never look back, I’m yearning for the feeling of being estranged, alienated, unknown. Strange graceful faces, foreign alluring language, Lavander fields, seas of green and the sound of birds chirping at dawn. I want to wander the streets alone, twirl around in the wind and feel the sense of freedom delight my existence.
beberequin 