I Might Be Confused Sometimes In My Head But It Is Not Something You Need To Talk About. Before You Can

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Rumi, from Bittersweet (tr. by Fereydoun Kia & Deepak Chopra)

“My capital of silk, you are so soft, but its hard, this heart, this art, this dark…to understand…but if you go the land…of the thousand dances…we might just have a million and one chances.”

—

-Rumi

Chavela Vargas − La Llorona

““Surely you must know,” she whispered. “Surely you know, it’s written all over me. Subconsciously, controlling every action, every smile, every touch, you always pull me closer and I am more visible with each passing second we spend together.””

— Surely you know, how awfully in love I am with you.

I listened to Bukowski this morning, and I realized my writing is not raw enough, angry enough, drunk enough; I even drink red wine instead of cheap beer. I detest cigarettes, never served in war, or roamed the streets looking to settle on the bed of some dude’s crude floor. I’m too feminine, too much an inherent believer in the quality of people. My heart is adversely set against his heretical ways. I’ve never been stabbed in the back by love, or if I have, I pulled the prick out years ago, and time and forgiveness have sealed the scar over. I might have even forgotten where the wounds are buried. I never carved mistakes out of people, stole time in self destruction, stared into the holes of another’s deceit. I’m not modern enough to be a true angst-filled American poet. I don’t possess the tongue to squeeze lemon over my open lesions letting them ooze into a glass I pour out as charity for the masses. Come, let me sacrifice hopelessness for the voyeurs. No, I only know to write of the way his lips taste the soft worlds within my seascape, the slant of patchwork light filtering through the hallway window, jewel-toned shells that satiate my harlequin heart. I only know of simple subjects; I’ve somehow been denied the stench or overlooked the cracked places harboring broken bottles and blood-stained lips. Does that make me any less a poet, I wonder.

upon reading Bukowski//

Rhapsodyinblue45

4.8.18

Mary Oliver, from Long Life: Essays And Other Writings originally published in 2004

3 a.m.

I find myself in the midst of poetry written by the broken hearted. As I read each line the overwhelmingly hurt that’s been forgotten in my mind. Yet felt in my heart the cries of all the why’s.

Poetry not only written or rewritten; but the kind living in the hearts of those who have lived hurt an pain. In which now converts to healing through words. Writing, the aftermath of endured angush.

Those who have had the highest of hopes. Only to find those hopes crushed by someones lies. Or torn, shattered, and distraught by the hands of a narcissist. Which ever the case may be, I say to you; don’t feel alone because I’ve lived the pain in your poems that I read.

R.A.

“A well-chosen book saves you from everything, including yourself.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald (via minuty)