The Fly - Leonard Cohen

[aimlesswanderer.livejournal.com]

In his black armour
the house-fly marched the field
of Freia's sleeping thighs,
undisturbed by the soft hand
which vaguely moved
to end his exercise.

And it ruined my day --
this fly which never planned
to charm her or to please
should walk boldly on that ground
I tried so hard
to lay my trembling knees.

(From: Let Us Compare Mythologies)

"My Name is Donald" by Donald Revell

[fly-nimue-fly.livejournal.com]

Like a fish on a hedge, the horsefly
Lands on my wife's lipstick.
That is sobriety.
That is the end of my hayride with oblivion.
I wonder: How long will it be until no one
Knows what a hayride is,
Or was? I've never been,
But the happiness I've seen in movies —
All the kids piled up in hay & a fiddler driving —
Is very real. It was real for a while.
Only a child can watch a movie sober.
He is younger than the mule pulling the wagon.
He is unshamed by the fiddler's expertise.
His birth trumps all, which is to say he's flying.

Emily Dickinson

[bel-ebat.livejournal.com]

Apparently with no surprise
To any happy Flower
The Frost beheads it at its play-
In accidental power-
The blonde assassin passes on-
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another Day
For an approving God.

Anne Sexton, "The Black Art"

[prettyvacunt.livejournal.com]

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

--Anne Sexton