Why You Should Never Marry A Poet | Heather Bell
Think about it - the way that credit cards, bougainvillea,
vacations, dictionaries, the road on the way to work will
all never be enough. The poet wishes
with her deepest bones
and writes that she wishes
she would have killed you
in the supermarket. She wonders why
she ever loved you in song.
She publishes book after book. Each line detailing
how your hair is ugly and monstrous in the morning. And how,
like moss, you cling to her
so piteously.
But you marry her anyway.
and she looks like a roar of snow
in white. You figure she will read a poem about you
that day in front of everyone: her throat
is, after all, a stamen
or matchstick.
But she is silent, says only the I DO’s
and a few Bible verses.
The poet loves with a most violent
heart. What you have not known-
she has wanted to tell you the truth
all of these years,
but grew silent as an old lover does
at eighty. There is no way to say
how one loves the ache of your cracked lips,
the heavy belly of your tongue, the years she spent
feeling not loved,
but still loving. Think about it-
the poet is fearful of others knowing and finding your mouth.
She is frightened of you -
realizing you could have been
loved better or harder
or with real words.
I’m sorry, but I do.
I hope that you are thunder and lightning.
I hope you are a forest fire,
I hope you kill the dead wood
and burn off the rotting leaves.
With the canopy gone,
the sun can get in.
You need new growth.
I hope you’re terrible and broken and perfect."
— joey, asofterworld.com (via capricious) (via alwaysregal)
and this is why all I want is to be a writer, someday.
You Must Accept - Kate Light
You must accept that’s who he really is.
You must accept you cannot be his
unless he is yours. No compromise.
He is a canvas on which paint never dries;
a clay that never sets, steel that bends
in a breeze, a melody that when it ends
no one can whistle. He is not who
you thought. He’s not. He is a shoe
that walks away: “I will not go where you
want to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”
“I’m not. I have the sole of a lover
but don’t know what love is.” “Discover
it, then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”
“Sometimes.” “Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”
You have to hear what he is telling you
and see what he is; how it is killing you.
The Thing Is, Ellen Bass
The thing is…
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
It’s been so long since I’ve been by myself
And I need this more than you will ever know
People like you and me never felt the breeze
People like you and me will never know the easy way
I scream into the wind and laugh
As the words slap me in hte face
I would gladly trade a lifetime of convenience
For and honest day or two
It’s just not the same when you’re staring
Into a perfect golden sunset
And thinking about how you sold your soul
To send the rain away
It’s been so long since I’ve stood on my two feet
I’d really rather lay here and pretend
But people like you and me never get that peace
It comes from denying that everything is so screwed up
It’s so screwed up
I stand on a building and throw up my arms to the sky
I swallow my pride and admit
That it’s not always best to understand the reason why
It’s just not the same when you wake up in the morning
With a smile on your face
When you know you lied yourself to sleep to make it better
To make it better
Mineral - Slower
with the ongoing work of my mind
and i’ve got myself a new mantra
it says: “don’t forget to have a good time."
— ani difranco (via capricious) (via alwaysregal)
life used to be life-like
now it’s more like show biz
i wake up in the night and i
don’t know where the bathroom is
and i don’t know what town i’m in
or what sky i am under
and i wake up in the darkness
and i don’t have the will anymore to wonder
and everyone has a skeleton
and a closet to keep it in and
you’re mine
every song has a you
a you that the singer sings to
and you’re it this time
baby, you’re it this time
when i need to wipe my face
i use the back of my hand
and i like to take up space
just because i can
and i use my dress
to wipe up my drink
you know, i care less and less
what people think
and you are so lame, you know
you always disappoint me
it’s kinda like our running joke
but it’s really not funny
i just want you to live up to
the image of you i create
i see you and i’m so unsatisfied
i see you and i dilate
so i’ll walk the plank
yeah, i’ll jump with a smile
if i’m gonna go down
i’m gonna do it with style
and you won’t see me surrender
you won’t hear me confess
‘cause you’ve left me with nothing
but i’ve worked with less
and i learn every room long enough
to make it to the door
and then i hear it click shut behind me
and every key works differently
and i forget every time
and the forgetting defines me
that’s what defines me
when i say you sucked my brain out
the english translation
is i am in love with you
and it is no fun
but i don’t use words like love
‘cause words like that don’t matter
but don’t look so offended
you know, you should be flattered
i wake up in the night
in some big hotel bed
my hands grope for the light
my hands grope for my head
the world is my oyster, you know
the road is my home
and i know that i’m better
i’m better, i’m better off alone
ani difranco - “dilate”
Wait, for now. Distrust everything, if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven’t they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become lovely again. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again, their memories are what give them the need for other hands. And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old. Wait. Don’t go too early. You’re tired. But everyone’s tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a while and listen: music of hair, music of pain, music of looms weaving all our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear, the flute of your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion. –Galway Kinnell
