You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away–
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and–
Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart–
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
“Priya Ramrakha was killed 41 years ago on a roadside while covering the Nigerian Civil War for Time-Life.
This Kenyan photojournalist was among the first African contract photographers for arguably the world’s most famous picture magazine. He chronicled the rapid decline…
I wonder if I was made to sit outside the house of love uninvited, cold and tired while the night gnaws at my exposed hands and face, peeping through the window in the back, desperate for just a little of the warmth I can see through the drapes - the warmth of lit candles and steam rising from kettles, of people listening avidly to stories they’ve heard before, of laughter to make someone else feel better, of smiles that trace lines of happiness across faces weathered by harsh experiences. I wonder if this was meant for me. If it ever was. I wonder what had signalled me from birth to remain on the outside, shivering and alone, too scared to ring the bell to ask whether I may join them.
Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Ntozake Shange, June Jordan, Lori Sharpe, and Audrey Edwards circa 1977 at a Black women’s writing group.
(Source: msnydiaswaby)
from these electronic boxes.
that suck us in. hours, and hours on end.
After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don’t you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?
amidst feigned connections, scripted characters,
never ending chapters of intellectual pretense
a masquerade of greatness.. .
or “quelque chose comme ca”
they scrambled to make memories,
catch up on lost time.
(lost to the mad race for big dreams
caught in wreckless finality.)
too fast to feel that
between yellow walls and flowered-sills—
over kitchen sinks—
they sprouted their own.
of ginger-lemon-walks,
comical cafe characters
reviving plath’s wrath
but their tears were sourced in the shared:
sidelong glances, and wit and joy
and they learned to love the ordinary
that was, in fact the harmony they sought all along.
sometimes i wonder if you’re not meant to be on this journey alone.
i’m so aware of what i don’t know that it’s all consuming, slow moving paralysis creeps into the crevices of my inner-workings, and my heart, soul, and mind are on mute: the anxiety robs what knowledge i have, and this is how i create my worst fears, because now i don’t know.
you are pushing me to push myself and yet the more open i become it seems you close, more. i just want to hold your hand
-
i’ve been angry for awhile. some days i try to write it down. things like ‘i’m bloated with salt water’ or ‘there is a sink in the middle of my chest and it’s flooding.’ 11 million people in the horn of africa are thirsty. and hungry. and dying. 11 million people. i chew on the insides of my…
