COVID-19 RESOURCES
LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

Snow and Dirty Rain

For you I undress down to the sheaths of my nerves.
I remove my jewelry and set it on the nightstand,
I unhook my ribs, spread my lungs flat on a chair.
I dissolve like a remedy in water, in wine.
I spill without staining, and leave without stirring the air.
I do it for love. For love, I disappear.

Kim Addonizio
 
My mother will never die.
I’ll swallow her myself, piece by piece.
I’ll gulp her down and spit her up
more beautiful
and pure.
I’ll sprinkle her with hyssop.
And she’ll be as white as snow.
Everyone who tells me my mother will die
I’ll butcher. I’ll put them up in the coarsest, most barbarous salt
and throw their heads to steep in a barrel,
in a sea of wine.
Of wine and Easter cake.

MIHAIL GĂLĂŢANU
 
—for my mother

The day before you are deaf
completely, I will make you
noise. I will bring birds,
bracelets, chimes to hang
in the wind. We will drive

from Idaho to Washington again,
and I will read to keep you
awake, and I will tap
little poems on the backs
of your arms, your neck
to be sure you hear me.
I will play spoons on your body
in restaurants, smack
my lips, heave you
sighs, each one deeper
than the rest. We will finally
shout. And then, as quiet
slips in, settling over,

I will speak. I will keep speaking.
I will sing you nonsense songs
until you go to sleep.

Making You Noise, Francesca Bell
 
I came with him inside me, which had never happened before, not with any man, and the coming fluttered improbably and like a bird dying between my legs. I hadn’t imagined it would be like that, and it made me open and close around him like the mouth of something underwater and warm, something not yet born.
 
Do not carry your remembrance.
Leave it, alone, in my breast,

tremor of a white cherry tree
in the torment of January.

James Wright, from “Gacela of the Remembrance of Love"
 
Sometimes these words are the only ones that keep me.

119ec5fb513c4d539b1c6e7fa549ec3c.jpg


- Ellen Bass
 
I don't believe in the godliness of steeples,
but I believe in the stained glass
and every key on every organ that is desperate for light,
'cause we are desperate for life-
for the sight of a captivated audience
refusing to be held captive in the thought
that they can only listen and watch.

Picasso said he would paint with his own wet tongue
on the dusty floor of a jail cell if he had to.
We have to create;
it is the only thing louder than destruction;
it is the only chance the bars are going to break.
Our hands full of color
reaching towards the sky- a brush stroke in the dark-
It is not too late.
That starry night- it is not yet dry.

Andrea Gibson
 
For we are like tree trunks in the snow. In appearance they lie sleekly and a little push should be enough to set them rolling. No, it can't be done, for they are firmly wedded to the ground. But see, even that is only appearance.

"The Trees" by Franz Kafka, tr. Willa and Edwin Muir
 
I used to climb my father, hands
in the calloused bark of his
as I walked up his chest
and stood on his shoulders. When
I grew he took me to a white oak
he’d planted in the woods. I
climbed that too. All the way
to the crown. It was solid like him.

And sometimes
in summer storms
and sometimes
in branches bent by snow
I’d imagine I could feel him
touch me and hear him call me,
as if he’d evolved into that tree
to lay hands on my shoulders
and say one last thing.
But more often love
was a matter of silence.

The dead come back. Do they
ever leave at all? Maybe
it’s a trick, slipping into dirt
like a root. No matter if
he’s resting now or hiding,
it was easy to forget

the tree. Shameful
it took me so long to know
it deserved better,
that in a truer world
it would not have blurred
into the others
as if it were just the same. I

lost it long ago to the ax
of my neglect, like the pictures
of a man I passed from frame
to scrapbook to shoebox
and locked in a closet

like a skeleton. I return
to these woods with no tongue
and barefoot. To walk quietly,
listening for his risen bones.

Patrick Carrington
 
The dead love that we weep,
that we stain ourselves with
salt, that we become for a moment
indistinguishable from the sea,
that our shining faces rock with grief.

Paul Guest
 
It’s true I can’t forget any part of him,
not the long vein rising up along the underside of his cock,
or the brushy hair around his balls, dank star of the asshole,
high arches of his feet, strawberry mole on his left cheek—
imperfection that made his face exquisite—
and the freckles scattered over his back,
white insides of his wrists, I remember those too,
and the scar on his belly oh I’m kissing it now,
he belongs to me so purely now he’s left me,
he’ll never come back, his face as he lets go inside of me,
I’ll never see it again, I stand dripping
in the shower where I once knelt
before him to drink whatever came
out of him, sometimes he would watch
me as I walked naked around the room,
here I am, it’s the same room, I’m still
seeing his face the night it closed
to me forever like a failed business, iron grillwork
across the door, dirty windows, trash scattered
over the floor and the fixtures taken out, I turned
away and stumbled down the street, the one bar
was open, the saddest bar in the world, filled
with painted clowns and a few drunks, the owner had passed out
in a booth, covered by his coat, his girlfriend was working
and said The usual, right? and I couldn’t say a word
except Please, and I took a stool and drank
what she served and served and served.

Kim Addonizio
 
Did you know that after I came,
I imagined my pelvis had emptied out
into a dark cave you could crawl into,
lay yourself down and fill my body
with your sleep?
This isn’t really about sex, is it?
Yet I could write about your tongue,
how cleverly you rotated it like a key to slip
open every lock of resistance under my skin, muscles loosening
like a hundred doors creeping open across the conservative,
suburban town of this flesh,
desire stepping into the open.
I could also write about your hands,
tenacious dogs of your fingertips
unearthing pleasure from every pore,
jump-starting nipples with the flick of your nails,
each time you pushed in deeper from behind.
I must not forget to write how much I love you when you
warn me not to swallow;
I love how I take you anyway into my mouth
like tugging a recalcitrant child back into the house, even though he
realizes deep inside himself that he would always long for home;
I love how you taste,
what was inside of you now inside of me,
sliding down my throat like the sweetest secret.
I could write about how when you fell
off the peak of your mounting hunger,
your hands stayed anchored upon my nape,
as if to keep from drowning,
as if to let me know,
‘Even when I’m this far gone, I’d want you here.
I’d want you with me.’

Cyril Wong
 
What is beautiful is often lost
Wept the cherry blossom trees throughout their
One significant gesture.

A skinflint’s extravagance is short-lived,
Mother warned. He’ll take you out to supper
Once.

The trees cried through the night
And in the dawn, afloat the grey water,
There, said the gay petals, there, there.

Kim Philley
 
These be
Three silent things:
The falling snow…the hour
Before the dawn…the mouth of one
Just dead.

Adelaide Crapsey, "Triad"
 
The three most short-lived traces: the trace of a bird on a branch, the trace of a fish on a pool, and the trace of a man on a woman.

An Irish Triad
 
“Consciousness is only possible through change; change is only possible through movement.”




― Aldous Huxley, The Art of Seeing
 
In love, no one can harm anyone else; we are each of us responsible for our own feelings and cannot blame someone else for what we feel. It hurt when I lost each of the various men I fell in love with. Now, though, I am convinced that no one loses anyone, because no one owns anyone. That is the true experience of freedom: having the most important thing in the world without owning it. - Paulo Coelho
 
Saw this and thought of you Fata dear.

“I believe in the magic of books. I believe that during certain periods in our lives we are drawn to particular books—whether it’s strolling down the aisles of a bookshop with no idea whatsoever of what it is that we want to read and suddenly finding the most perfect, most wonderfully suitable book staring us right in the face. Unblinking. Or a chance meeting with a stranger or friend who recommends a book we would never ordinarily reach for. Books have the ability to find their own way into our lives.”
— Cecelia Ahern
 
Tathagata said:
Saw this and thought of you Fata dear.

“I believe in the magic of books. I believe that during certain periods in our lives we are drawn to particular books—whether it’s strolling down the aisles of a bookshop with no idea whatsoever of what it is that we want to read and suddenly finding the most perfect, most wonderfully suitable book staring us right in the face. Unblinking. Or a chance meeting with a stranger or friend who recommends a book we would never ordinarily reach for. Books have the ability to find their own way into our lives.”
— Cecelia Ahern
Click to expand...

Only just seen this! That is so true, and why Amazon/kindles/the internet etc will never ever top good old fashioned book shopping.

:heart:
 
Fata Morgana said:
Only just seen this! That is so true, and why Amazon/kindles/the internet etc will never ever top good old fashioned book shopping.

:heart:
Click to expand...

Have you read the beginning of 'If on a Winter's Night a Traveler' (yes, I know, American spelling)? It's wonderful on the process of entering a bookshop.

'In the shop window you have promptly identified the cover with the title you were looking for. Following this visual trail, you have forced your way through the shop past the thick barricade of Books You Haven't Read, which were frowning at you from the tables and shelves, trying to cow you. But you know you must never allow yourself to be awed, that among them there extend for acres and acres the Books You Needn't Read, the Books Made For Purposes Other Than Reading, Books Read Even Before You Open Them Since They Belong To The Category Of Books Read Before Being Written. And thus you pass the outer girdle of ramparts, but then you are attacked by the infantry of the Books That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly Also Read But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered. With a rapid maneuver you bypass them and move into the phalanxes of the Books You Mean To Read But There Are Others You Must Read First, the Books Too Expensive Now And You'll Wait Till They're Remaindered, the Books ditto When They Come Out In Paperback, Books You Can Borrow From Somebody, Books That Everybody's Read So It's As If You Had Read Them, Too. Eluding these assaults, you come up beneath the towers of the fortress, where other troops are holding out:

the Books You've Been Planning To Read For Ages,

the Books You've Been Hunting For Years Without Success,

the Books Dealing With Something You're Working On At The Moment,

the Books You Want To Own So They'll Be Handy Just In Case,

the Books You Could Put Aside Maybe To Read This Summer,

the Books You Need To Go With Other Books On Your Shelves,

the Books That Fill You With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easily Justified,

Now you have been able to reduce the countless embattled troops to an array that is, to be sure, very large but still calculable in a finite number; but this relative relief is then undermined by the ambush of the Books Read Long Ago Which It's Now Time To Reread and the Books You've Always Pretended To Have Read And Now It's Time To Sit Down And Really Read Them.'

And from the same novel, which makes me think of Ally Rose:

'What harbour can receive you more securely than a great library?'
 
Aah that's fab! I put a quote about librarians in the old Iso from the book I just finished. Dunno if she saw.
 
When I run the world, librarians will be exempt from tragedy. Even their smaller sorrows will last only for as long as you can take out a book.

Karen Joy Fowler, We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves
 
Fata Morgana said:
When I run the world, librarians will be exempt from tragedy. Even their smaller sorrows will last only for as long as you can take out a book.

Karen Joy Fowler, We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves
Click to expand...

I saw that and loved it, so I hope she did. One of my best friends is a librarian, and has worked in some astonishing places, chief among them the Codrington Library...She earns barely enough to cover her bills but my word, she is happy and fulfilled.

Anyway - I am diverting the purpose of the thread. So I'll leave on this, from Saint Oscar:

'It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it.'
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

H
Year In Sex
Replies
11
Views
1K
Lumiere_Amie
Lumiere_Amie
SmokingFap
It's the "I Can't Get That Fucking Song Out of My Head" Game!
Replies
7
Views
171
pink
pink
JZ_Couple
Introducing ourselves (couple)
Replies
21
Views
1K
Thin59
T
live4thebj
Infidelity
2
Replies
33
Views
2K
DiscoJedi
DiscoJedi
InCNCestBangPie
Women of Lit: A Safe Place To Share
24 25 26
Replies
646
Views
20K
Strixaluco
Strixaluco
Back
Top