A Writer's Ruminations

Hello everyone,

My family and I are struggling right now. My stepdad just lost his job, and we rely on his income. We’re trying to stay in our home, afford the basic necessities, and buy life-sustaining medications. If you can give any amount of money to help, I would deeply appreciate it.

Click here to donate

All the best,

Caitlin

p.s. I want to thank everyone who has donated, reblogged, and offered support. Tumblr is such a refuge for me. All of you make me feel less alone in the world. 

One day, there was an atomic bomb beneath my lawn in a shape vaguely like yours, and digging carefully, I realized to love something is to think you could explode. 

—Lisa Marie Basile, from “Benjamin” in triste: mourning stories

Like the dead-seeming, cold rocks, I have memories within that came out of the material that went to make me. Time and place have had their say.

—Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road

I feel nothing
but pain for the past
trying to separate
like old clothes
crumbling in a chest
what does not last
from what I can keep
trying to understand
how I fell
so short of what I intended
to do with my life.
How life twists and turns
against us. How a childhood
is not really understood
until it is lived
a second time
in memory.
How wonderful
and how terrible
it seems now
because it is gone
and because it was mine.

—Sarah Brown Weitzman, from “Looking Back" (via mitochondria)

Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold.
Death’s great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?

By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.

And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined dirty houses—
something not known to anyone at all
But wild in our breast for centuries.

—Anna Akhmatova, “Everything is Plundered, Betrayed, Sold" (translated by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward)

There is no more I can lose. We have
     reached the end of ending.
And so I simply stroke, and
     stroke. And stroke your face.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

Life is a place where it’s forbidden
     to live.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

But this dark is deep:
now I warm you with my blood, listen
to this flesh.
It is far truer than poems.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

Love is flesh, it is a
     flower flooded with blood.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

I no longer remember you separately 
as a face but a white emptiness

without true features. All – is a 
whiteness. (My spirit is one 
uninterrupted wound.)

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the Mountain” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew,
the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet.
And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we
who never let each other sleep above it.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “I know the truth” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)