… It will always remain a mystery
you have to go home now and live with,
sometimes with the ease of music, and sometimes in silence,
for the rest of your life.

      When deeds splay before us
precious as gold & unused chances
stripped from the whine-bone,
we know the moment kindheartedness
walks in.
If we can see it push shadows
aside, growing closer, are we less

Spesso mi sono sentita, e ancora mi sento, come una nave che ha preso a bordo un carico prezioso: le funi vengono recise e ora la nave va, libera di navigare dappertutto. Dobbiamo essere la nostra propria patria.

Etty Hillesum )

What is it
my mind wants to get at, always extending, hungering, looking
back, always tearing open again its own modernity,
as if each thought is more than the little present
moment it sounds like, but, raised at an angle, piercing me, having me imagine,
to build such antique violences in my head, it is a thorn? This moss
has been growing for ages now, can do nothing
but snag and grow   …    What is it the mind won’t
unsee, beautiful flaw?

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