July 6, 2014

“I need to be alone for certain periods of time or I violate my own rhythm.”

Lee Krasner (1908-1984), via la douleur exquise.


Nightrunning

July 4, 2014

Nightrunning

So much cold
even the moon can’t swallow it
or the harbour in its fishy dark. You
balance your breath like a bowl of dry
ice. It’s all a mistake, this body,
this job, this love. Somewhere inside
where the heart spins hard on its string
is an animal watching. It scratches
at night, perhaps a beak or a tusk,
is neither kind nor unkind, just restless.

So much rain
even the deepest hill can’t filter it
or the river with its open gills. You
carry your heart like a full dish of blood.
It’s all such a blessing, this body,
this job, this love. Somewhere inside
where the lungs stretch their intricate wings
is an animal watching. It wriggles
at night and shows its belly or its tender scales,
is neither kind nor unkind, just restless.

 

Tiffany Atkinson, via The Guardian.


Hilda Rix Nicholas (1884-1961)

June 17, 2014

The Gold Coat (Portrait of Dorothy Richmond), 1925

Autumn Magic (Blue Mountains), 1922-23

Les Fleurs Dédaignées, 1925

White Gums, Cremorne Point, Sydney Harbour

A new and lovely discovery: Hilda Rix Nicholas, currently showing at the Mosman Art Gallery.


101 days since

June 9, 2014

Even if I’m just talking to myself – it’s been a while. Four days after my last post, a loved friend passed away, and while I don’t want to write about her now (because it is dark and raining and the hole is deep), I want to open the doors to this blog again. It’s been a trying couple of months. But more on that later maybe. For now:

“There are certain people who come into your life, and leave a mark. Their place in your heart is tender; a bruise of longing, a pulse of unfinished business. Just hearing their names pushes and pulls at you in a hundred ways, and when you try to define those hundred ways, describe them even to yourself, words are useless.”

Sara Zarr
(via abundance)


February 24, 2014

Nighthawk

n. a recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt, a looming and shapeless future—that circles high overhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep, that you can successfully ignore for weeks, only to feel its presence hovering outside the window, waiting for you to finish your coffee, passing the time by quietly building a nest.

From the ever-wonderful Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.


Khaleesi Says

February 2, 2014

 

Khaleesi Says
Game of Thrones

In this story, she is fire born:
knee-deep in the shuddering world.

In this story, she knows no fear,
for what is fractured is a near-bitten star,
a false-bearing tree,
or a dishonest wind.

In this story, fear is a house gone dry.
Fear is not being a woman.

I’m no ordinary woman, she says.
My dreams come true.

And she says and she is
and I say, yesgive me that.

 

Follow
Game of Thrones

Follow where all is./Follow the transfused./Follow what is still and
what is still-attracting.

That light/That beauty/That love/That, that is massy-borne and
rising up, like a drifting star.

Like stars lift./Like lifting stars./Like the lifting of stars, I rose. I rise.

Rose. Rose. Like a thing beyond words: satiated.

Let lie in the ravage./Let lie in what is ravaged-wrought.

Why fear what hasn’t become?

I beckon, like light./Like a star, I will beckon./You will oblige./You
will lend the want. You will eclipse my blinding.

You will know nothing. Nothing. You will know nothing of what
has been dark.

 

Leah Umansky, “Khaleesi Says” and “Follow”, Poetry 203.4
(Jan., 2014): 314-15. I subscribed to Poetry late last year,
and it’s just about the greatest thing to discover in your
mailbox after a long day at work. ♥


Throw over your man

January 8, 2014

Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.

Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West, 1927, From The 50 Greatest Love Letters of All Time, ed. David H. Lowenherz, Crown: New York, 2002.


Bluebells, after long absence

June 9, 2013

Bluebells, after long absence

Early Spring, by Gareth Williams


A highly original woman

January 3, 2013

 

I remember the sky behind her was purple she
came towards me saying
Why are you alone in this huge blank garden
like a piece of electricity? Electricity?
Maybe she said cakes and tea true we were drinking gin it was long past
teatime but she was a highly original woman

 

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red, Vintage: New York, 1999: 58.


Also:

December 17, 2012