You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterwards in a recasting…
It will come if it is there and if you will let it come.” —Gertrude Stein (via bikeandwrite)
The better that my longing you may know;
I’m not asking you to come,
But – can’t you go?” —Serenade by Djuna Barnes (via suspiria-de-profundis)
who was more or less like All
mothers, but she was mine, —and
so— She excelled” —Djuna Barnes: Book of Repulsive Women
There ain’t gonna be any answer.
There never has been an answer.
There’s your answer.” —Gertrude Stein (via libraryland)
I make the coffee as you sleep,
your forehead pressed against the pillow,
twisting arms, legs,
so alive like orchard vines,
I see you from the kitchen doorway.
In these moments, the we of us
No laughter, parties, or concocted, clever conversations
with the who’s who and the what’s of
just pause, and perception.
The I of me isthe eye of me.
Nothing else matters.
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
“Mariana in the Moated Grange”
(Shakespeare, Measure for Measure)
Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide.After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by,And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, “The night is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; She said, “I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!”
Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen’s lowCame to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mornAbout the lonely moated grange. She only said, “The day is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; She said, “I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!”
About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken’d waters slept,And o’er it many, round and small, The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did markThe level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, “My life is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; She said “I am aweary, aweary I would that I were dead!”
And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away,In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway.But when the moon was very low And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fellUpon her bed, across her brow. She only said, “The night is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; She said “I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!”
All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak’d;The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,Or from the crevice peer’d about. Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices called her from without. She only said, “My life is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; She said, “I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!”
The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the soundWhich to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the dayWas sloping toward his western bower. Then said she, “I am very dreary, He will not come,” she said; She wept, “I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead!”http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174632