Hilary Holladay, Wild Blessings: The Poetry of Lucille Clifton.

Don’t get offended
If I seem absent-minded
I get tongue-tied

Baby, you’ve got to be more discerning
I’ve never known what’s good for me
Baby, you’ve got to be more demanding
I will be yours


What are you holding out for?
What’s always in the way?
Why so damn absent-minded?
Why so scared of romance?

This modern love breaks me

(Source: exhaledoom)

Le mie rose rosse e gialle si sono completamente schiuse. Mentre ero là, in quell’inferno, hanno continuato silenziosamente a fiorire. Molti mi dicono: come puoi pensare ancora ai fiori, di questi tempi.
Ieri sera, dopo quella lunga camminata nella pioggia, e con quella vescica sotto il piede, sono ancora andata a cercare un carretto che vendesse fiori e così sono arrivata a casa con un gran mazzo di rose. Ed eccole lì, reali quanto tutta la miseria vissuta in un intero giorno.

Is the Mind or the Body the Problem?


Woken by thinking
into hours too small
to permit free association,
I lie beneath the weight
of night.The darkness crushes
like a room with shrinking walls,
cling-wrapping breath, impeding
tears. Like a hired mourner,
my skin weeps for me:
night-sweats wrapping me
in glycerin pajamas,
clammy as web. Within
the bathroom dazzle
an even smaller sanctuary:
a cell of glass, the zap
and scald of steamy water.
Beam me up, hard rains,
or down, or anywhere.
Wash awareness form me,
extinguish self, pressure
the boney roof of think and feel,
close my eyes with water fingers,
hush my mouth with small hot bites
transport me from the booth
to break of heart, or til
I choose to turn love off.

Peter Goldsworthy


"I’m a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl" digital collage
© ATLOE (All Things Lost on Earth)  
 If you share, please credit the artist.

The Visiting

I suffer from insomnia, from loneliness I sleep;
in the midst of the talk and the laughter
all at once you are there—

Hour of waking up and writhing 
with humiliation, or
of wishes answered before

one was aware of what they were.
And let me ask you this: the dead,
where aren’t they?

Hour when the ones who can’t rest
go to bed, and the ones 
who can’t wake go to work—

Dark blue morning glory
I reach to touch, there is another world
and it is this world.

Then the light streamed in yellow
and blue through long windows, and blood
turned to wine in my veins.

Tears of wine
rode down my cheek.
It’s happening, I thought,

though it had never happened 
before. I squeezed 
my eyes closed, gazing into

a darkness all of light. The more
you tried to hold it back, the more
sweetly and irresistibly it arrived.

Franz Wright

Sorrise con aria comprensiva, molto più che comprensiva. Era uno di quei sorrisi rari, dotati di un eterno incoraggiamento, che si incontrano quattro o cinque volte nella vita. Affrontava – o pareva affrontare – l’intero eterno mondo per un attimo, e poi si concentrava sulla persona a cui era rivolto con un pregiudizio irresistibile a suo favore. La capiva esattamente fin dove voleva essere capita, credeva in lei come a lei sarebbe piaciuto credere in se stessa, e la assicurava di aver ricevuto da lei esattamente l’impressione che sperava di produrre nelle condizioni migliori.