Musings

Dormant

 

It takes time to learn this silence,

a silence so full that it bleeds

between the gaps of her ramshackle,

bow-legged speech. She possesses

no answers. She offers only

what she can hold in her young hands,

only what her limited mind can yearn after.

 

She quavers in this house. This house

with its private humiliations, its stilted rooms,

its wide, lonely timbers. Everything breaks—

the emaciated teacups, the brittle fabrics.

Why marvel at fragility? Why celebrate

only that which is short-lived?

 

She forgets the exquisite sweetness of the wind,

the dark trills and lulling whispers that breathe

secrets through the loving arms of trees. She forgets

the hushed joy of namelessness and of indecision,

the slowly-savored luxury of ignorance.

 

The sun slowly loses itself behind petty doors and walls.

 

And when the silence breaks over her—

when it cools into thick ropes of amber

around her long fingers, her lovely neck—

she cannot be. These moments distill her

in immobility. They suspend her in the long unbeing

of this house.

 

It is only then

that the heat of his breath drifting

down her back and the dull pounding

of his hands on her wasted legs

remind her that she lives.

 

—serendipitybaby

wnyc:
Bestiary for the Fingers of My Right Handby Charles Simic
1. Thumb, loose tooth of a horse. Rooster to his hens. Horn of a devil.  Fat worm They have attached to my flesh At the time of my birth. It takes four to hold him down, Bend him in half, until the bone Begins to whimper. Cut him off.  He can take care Of himself.  Take root in the earth, Or go hunting with wolves.
2. The second points the way. True way.  The path crosses the earth, The moon and some stars. Watch, he points further. He points to himself.
3. The middle one has backache. Stiff, still unaccustomed to this life: An old man at birth.  It’s about something That he had and lost, That he looks for within my hand, The way a dog looks For fleas With a sharp tooth.
4. The fourth is mystery. Sometimes as my hand Rests on the table He jumps by himself As though someone called his name.
After each bone, finger, I come to him, troubled.
5. Something stirs in the fifth Something perpetually at the point Of birth.  Weak and submissive, His touch is gentle. It weighs a tear. It takes the mote out of the eye.

wnyc:

Bestiary for the Fingers of My Right Hand
by Charles Simic

1.
Thumb, loose tooth of a horse.
Rooster to his hens.
Horn of a devil.  Fat worm
They have attached to my flesh
At the time of my birth.
It takes four to hold him down,
Bend him in half, until the bone
Begins to whimper.
Cut him off.  He can take care
Of himself.  Take root in the earth,
Or go hunting with wolves.

2.
The second points the way.
True way.  The path crosses the earth,
The moon and some stars.
Watch, he points further.
He points to himself.

3.
The middle one has backache.
Stiff, still unaccustomed to this life:
An old man at birth.  It’s about something
That he had and lost,
That he looks for within my hand,
The way a dog looks
For fleas
With a sharp tooth.

4.
The fourth is mystery.
Sometimes as my hand
Rests on the table
He jumps by himself
As though someone called his name.

After each bone, finger,
I come to him, troubled.

5.
Something stirs in the fifth
Something perpetually at the point
Of birth.  Weak and submissive,
His touch is gentle.
It weighs a tear.
It takes the mote out of the eye.

bohemianshoebox:

Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg at Kerouac’s grave, Lowell, MA, 1975

bohemianshoebox:

Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg at Kerouac’s grave, Lowell, MA, 1975

omgthatdress:

Christian Dior “Junon” dress ca. 1949 via The Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art

omgthatdress:

Christian Dior “Junon” dress ca. 1949 via The Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art