To be a woman, perhaps, is always to be a foreigner.
Kate Zambreno, from Heroines
Etikett: poetry
Mournful November
this is the image
you invent for me,
Margaret Atwood, from You Are Happy; November.
Her body was tortured with something it could not let out.
Jean Toomer, from “Cane,” originally published c. January 1923
She will never speak to them, she will never look at them with anything but loathing, she will never forgive them. She will punish them; she will finish them.
Alice Munro, from Beggar Maid: Stories of Flo & Rose; “Royal Beatings,”
“I’m only going to get hurt again. There is no God. I am ghost and ghosting and ghosted. I hunt myself.”
— Hannah Cohen, from “Crush,” published in Bending Genres
“I went walking (said the girl) on the edge of madness.”
— René Char, tr. by Thomas Merton, from “Septentrion,” wr. c. July 1940
… you fill me with terrible wonder … like the onset of madness.
Walter Benton (1904-1976), “This is My Beloved” (Entry November 15), published in 1943
As for me, I’m quiet though full of melancholy;
Federico García Lorca, tr. by Sarah Arvio, from “In the Garden of Lunar Grapefruit,”
“Night-dark eyes; falling stars;”
— Georg Trakl, from Poems and Prose; “Sevenfold Song of Death,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)
Golden October declined into sombre November…
T.S. Eliot, from Poems & Plays: 1909 – 1950; “Murder in the Cathedral,”
beberequin 