fuckyeahpolishpoets: I live not seeing stars I speak not understanding words I wait not counting days till somebody breaks through this wall (Translated by Jan J. Kaluza; Submitted by proustitute)
Bodies by Anna Kamienska
fuckyeahpolishpoets: Bodies disappear like ghosts become invisible untouchable absent discovered in bathtubs fainting on streets swaying on stretchers departing with a photograph in hand freed from a watch a wedding ring an umbrella beautiful as during the nuptial night naked truly faithful this time for ever friends with silence that is with things in themselves returning through the side door...
I Don't Know How a Day Flew By Us by Anna...
fuckyeahpolishpoets: I don’t know how a day flew by us I don’t know how life flew by us and closed with a word like a lake with ice winter passed snows melted the sun appeared and saw after the winter that scar on the earth your grave
Letters from the Alleghenies
septembrist: I walked for hours and thought of you as though I were speaking to you, and with each lunge forward on the path, I felt the oaks and sunlight move to become you. How absent I have been since this scarlet scarf swept through me and changed the feel of my hips, the way they rise up into my tongue like fear or desire or the taste of rust. As I walked, I carried the memory of your lips...
Touch by Octavio Paz
My hands open the curtains of your being clothe you in a further nudity uncover the bodies of your body My hands invent another body for your body
Between Going and Staying the Day Wavers
by Octavio Paz Between going and staying the day wavers, in love with its own transparency. The circular afternoon is now a bay where the world in stillness rocks. All is visible and all elusive, all is near and can’t be touched. Paper, book, pencil, glass, rest in the shade of their names. Time throbbing in my temples repeats the same unchanging syllable of blood. The light turns the...
Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on...– Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath (via earlyfrost)
I’ve no ambitions or desires. Being a poet isn’t my ambition. It’s my way of...– Fernando Pessoa writing as Alberto Caeiro (ahuntersheart)
A great love carries within it a mourning for love.– Edmond Jabès, Yaël, 1967. (via proustitute)
Don’t you think the stairs are a good place for reading letters? I do. One is...– katherine mansfield - letter dated 29 july, 1921. (via modernistwomen)
A Path in the Woods by Anna Kamienska
fuckyeahpolishpoets: I don’t trust the truth of memories because what leaves us departs forever There’s only one current of this sacred river but I still want to remain faithful to my first astonishments to recognize as wisdom the child’s wonder and to carry in myself until the end a path in the woods of my childhood dappled with patches of sunlight to search for it everywhere in museums in the...
yesyes: I buried my father in the sky. Since then, the birds clean and comb him every morning and pull the blanket up to his chin every night. I buried my father underground. Since then, my ladders only climb down, and all the earth has become a house whose rooms are the hours, whose doors stand open at evening, receiving guest after guest Sometimes I see past them to the tables spread for a...
Firewater by Tomasz Rozycki
fuckyeahpolishpoets: When I first started writing, no one told me that it was a sickness, that my friends and family would have to look after me, and that the women whom I touch with this pen would later visit me in the clinical ward. That I would be assigned to a detox center. That sadly I would fake improvement, pretend in front of the children and the director that I’m healthy. That...
Can you understand being alone so long you would go out in the middle of the...– Jack Gilbert, “The Abandoned Valley” (via yesyes)
To be the Earth by Anna Kamienska
fuckyeahpolishpoets: To be the earth to hold you tightly in my embrace to bring you bitter scents of herbs hungers of roots to be the earth to whisper in your ear it’s me mother and wife to overcome fear to be the earth to crawl in sleep through chalk pits to hold your head in my palms of clay oh lips and eyes dear feet and hands turn happily to dust it’s the right of all that live to prize for...
for fear you will be alone
goodpoetry: For fear you will be alone you do so many things that aren’t you at all. Richard Brautigan
Summer by Anna Kamienska
fuckyeahpolishpoets: Summer cuts through me again back to childhood The world like a shady garden repeats me every branch dresses up in my youth every leaf reflects me A gullible butterfly sits on the meadow of my dress a little spider augurs an ordinary happiness For simple creatures it’s enough to exist and they don’t know that along with them all sinks into darkness (Submitted by the...
Don’t worry you’ll die many times until you learn at the very end...– Anna Kamienska
We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.– (Louise Gluck, “Nostos”)
The things that keep me alive are the things that keep me alone.– Fin Greenall (via human-voices)
The Moss Of His Skin
yesyes: Young girls in old Arabia were often buried alive next to their dead fathers, apparently as sacrifice to the goddesses of the tribes … Harold Feldman, “Children of the Desert” Psychoanalysis and Psychoanalytic Review, Fall 1958 It was only important to smile and hold still, to lie down beside him and to rest awhile, to be folded up together as if we were silk, to sink from the eyes of...
aperfectcommotion: “Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.” — T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
Perhaps my task as a poet is to describe the landscape of loneliness.– Anna Kamienska
My hand craves writing like the woodcutter’s hand craves an axe. Only this...– Anna Kamienska
The Book of Tumblr: Chapter Ten →
fortuneandglory: This project is generating some wonderful writing. To learn more about The Book of Tumblr, go here. If you find it interesting, consider getting involved.
…later beneath the blueness of trees the future falls out of place: something...– C.D. Wright (via cfbwe)
abundance-mine asked: Given your love for Woolf's writings have you ever visited London or England ?
They came there regularly every evening drawn by some need. It was as if the...– Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
Clarissa had a theory in those days - they had heaps of theories, always...– Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
of-the-valley asked: All I have read by Virgina Woolf is "The Death of a Moth", from there, where should I go? :)
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.– Virginia Woolf, The Waves
Wind and storm colored July. Also, in the middle, cadaverous, awful, lay the...– Virginia Woolf, The Waves
What is your favorite Virginia Woolf book?
There must be a wound inside words that communicates.– Jean Daive, From Walks with Paul Celan (via ahuntersheart)
I Cannot by Anna Swirszczynska
fuckyeahpolishpoets: I envy you. Every moment You can leave me. I cannot leave myself.
On the Threshold of the Poem by Anna Kamienska
fuckyeahpolishpoets: On the threshold of the poem shake off the dust the powder of hate from your soul set aside passion so as not to defile words Into this space step alone and the tenderness of things will enfold you and lead you toward the dark as if you had lost worldly sight There whatever was named will return and stand in the radiance so you and I can find each other like two trees that...
Those Winter Sundays
arsvitaest: by Robert Hayden (1913-1980) Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of...
Brotherhood by Octavio Paz
I am a man: little do I last and the night is enormous. But I look up: the stars write. Unknowing I understand: I too am written, and at this very moment someone spells me out.
Poetry Reading by Anna Swirszczynska
fuckyeahpolishpoets: I’m curled into a ball like a dog that is cold. Who will tell me why I was born, why this monstrosity called life. The telephone rings. I have to give a poetry reading. I enter. A hundred people, a hundred pairs of eyes. They look, they wait. I know for what. I am supposed to tell them why they were born, why there is this monstrosity called life.
By and by all trace is gone, and what is forgotten is not only the footprints...– Beloved by Toni Morrison (via the-final-sentence)
It is words that are to blame. They are the wildest, freest, most irresponsible,...– Virginia Woolf (via souvrir)
A life should leave deep tracks: ruts where she went out and back to get the...– Kay Ryan, “Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard” (via yesyes)
For the Muses' Return by Adam Czerniawski
fuckyeahpolishpoets: They came from fields already sated with milky darkness three of them or maybe two; they merged with the contours of pines and melodies and turned the pale afterglow of a somnolent sky into gusty wind. I no longer see them but now read with difficulty: You are here on 27 July 1991 conscious though fearful, record this moment, note it down. Time flows in you ...
It seems that the dead always appear in our dreams just before we wake. In this...– Anna Kamienska