The clouds are // following each other // Into Eternity
Reblogged from les-yeux-tristes
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
Reblogged from sundryedtomatos
Rainer Maria Rilke (via heart-broke-and-inchoate)
Reblogged from forthedamagedcoda
Women’s History Month: March 3, Warsan Shire
Warsan Shire is a London-based, Kenyan-born, Somali writer whose powerful poetry has left me blown away each time I read it. In her book of poetry “Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth” Shire explores the relationship of women’s bodies to war and displacement.
Check out this interview if you’d like to learn more. If you’re a writer or poet or someone who just enjoys being knocked off your feet by words, read all the poetry!
“If our secrets are secrets because we are told to be ashamed, then we must share them.”
Warsan Shire, you are a true inspiration and an empowering woman.
Reblogged from warsanshire
The neighborhood boys have grown taller
than their absent fathers.
My girl use to be one of the boys,
throat a gun tossed in to a river
fist fight for a mouth
bag of ice for a father.
Then her body grew soft where she did not want it soft
grew full, grew heavy, grew ripe
if the boys see then the boys will become hungry.
My girl avoids mirrors
binds her breasts like a secret
buries the dead in between her legs
every month bleeds like she is a wound
calls out the names of the dead like lottery numbers
and all the names sound like her own.
My girl picks her father from a list of fatherless rappers,
measures her thighs in her bedroom
is on a diet, forever
is a red balloon stolen from a party
deflating in a corner.
Her first kiss, a boy who does not like girls
unless they are face down on a mattress.
My girl has a blank cd for a father,
the back seat of car for a mother.
Once in a basement when the music was on
and she thought no one was looking
and she could not help herself
and the body wanted to move
and the body it did move
and the body became almost sound,
she was wet from the bass in her stomach.
Everyone wanted to be like her,
that splinter in the oversized shirt.
My girl is the knife in the family portrait
the miscarriage at the sleepover
pink bubblegum expanding from a whores lips
riding the carousel with a nose bleed
glitter in a coffin
confetti in the barrel of a gun,
My girl is holy, is sacred, is pure
is clean, is loved, is whole, is beautiful
is worthy, is okay, is alone, is just fine
just the way you are girl
just the way you look babe
with that dirty mouth
and those hands, wherever they have been
and that sadness, whatever caused it
and that anger, wherever it came from
and that fear, who ever brought it
you are my girl, girl, you are me.