(no subject)

[2much-estrogen.livejournal.com]

i think this is where the whole starving artist cliche originated from.

The Author to Her Book
by Anne Bradstreet

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.

Still life with a balloon - Wislawa Szymborszka

[aimlesswanderer.livejournal.com]

Still life with a balloon

Returning memories?No, at the time of death I'd like to see lost objects return instead.
Avalanches of gloves, coats, suitcases, umbrellas-come, and I'll say at last: What good's all this?Safety pins, two odd combs, a paper rose, a knife, some string-come, and I'll say at last: I haven't missed you.Please turn up, key, come out, wherever you've been hiding,in time for me to say: You've gotten rusty, friend!
My watch, dropped in a river, bob upand let me sieze you- then, face to face, I'll say:Your so-called time is up. And lastly,toy balloon once kidnapped by the wind- come home,and I will say: There are no children here.
Fly out the open window and into the wide world;let someone else shout "Look!" and I will cry.

                                Wislawa Szymborszka

The Man In The Flypaper Tuxedo

[emmmjay.livejournal.com]

"The verb of secret science
Is bubbling under my coat!
The fire, my tubes of bloodtumbling
Bloodtumbling buckets of sky!
The sun drinks me deep!
I carry the night air on my back,
My skin electric with flies!"

              

( His tuxedo is of flypaper, )

Elm -Sylvia Plath

[saint-sadistic.livejournal.com]

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

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