Meditations in an Emergency

Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.

Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern. The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey. It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up.

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with which to venture forth. Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else for a change?

The stars fell one by one into his eyes and burnt.

In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again whom we love.

I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist.

I embraced a cloud, but when I soared it rained.

If I am ever to find these trees meaningful I must have you by the hand. As it is, they stretch dusty fingers into an obscure sky, and the snow looks up like a face dirtied with tears. Should I cry out and see what happens? There could only be a stranger wandering in this landscape, cold, unfortunate, himself frozen fast in wintry eyes.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.

I am moved by the multitudes of your intelligence and sometimes, returning, I become the sea— in love with your speed, your heaviness and breath.

Destroy yourself, if you don't know!

I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where you don't want me to.

I take this for myself, and you take up the thread of my life between your teeth, tin thread and tarnished with abuse, you shall still hear as long as the beast in me maintains its taciturn power to close my lids in tears, and my loins move yet in the ennobling pursuit of all the worlds you have left me alone in, and would be the dolorous distraction from, while you summon your army of anguishes which is a million hooting blood vessels on the eyes and in the ears at that instant before death.

life perpetuated in parti-colored loves and beautiful lies all in different languages.

There is a geography which holds its hands just so far from the breast and pushes you away, crying so.

and I have mastered the speed and strength which is the armor of the world.

I loved her fright, which was against me into the air! and the diamond white of her forelock which seemed to smart with thoughts as my heart smarted with life! and she'd toss her head with the pain and paw the air and champ the bit, as if I were Endymion and she, moon-like, hated to love me.

your veins are using up the redness of the world.

It may be the coldest day of The year, what does he think of That? I mean, what do I? And if I do, Perhaps I am myself again.

There were occasionally rifts in the cloud where the face of a woman appeared, frowning.

Love is first of all a lesson in utility.

Mayakovsky" 1 My heart’s aflutter! I am standing in the bath tub crying. Mother, mother who am I? If he will just come back once and kiss me on the face his coarse hair brush my temple, it’s throbbing! then I can put on my clothes I guess, and walk the streets. 2 I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist. Words! be sick as I am sick, swoon, roll back your eyes, a pool, and I’ll stare down at my wounded beauty which at best is only a talent for poetry. Cannot please, cannot charm or win what a poet! and the clear water is thick with bloody blows on its head. I embrace a cloud, but when I soared it rained. 3 That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks what a funny place to rupture! and now it is raining on the ailanthus as I step out onto the window ledge the tracks below me are smoky and glistening with a passion for running I leap into the leaves, green like the sea 4 Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern. The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey. It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again.

It's a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world.

But here is where the gods are, speculating, bemused.

River" Whole days would go by, and later their years, while I thought of nothing but its darkness drifting like a bridge against the sky. Day after day I dreamily sought its melancholy, its searchings, its soft banks enfolded me, and upon my lengthening neck its kiss was murmuring like a wound. My very life became the inhalation of its weedy ponderings and sometimes in the sunlight my eyes, walled in water, would glimpse the pathway to the green sea. For it was there I was being borne. Then for a moment my strengthening arms would cry out upon the leafy crest of air like whitecaps, and lightning, swift as pain, would go through me on its way to the forest, and I’d sink back upon the brutal tenderness that bore me on, that held me like a slave in its liquid distances of eyes, and one day, though weeping for my caresses, would abandon me, moment of infinitely salty air! Sun fluttering like a signal! Upon the open flesh of the world.

It was all you, your graceful white smiles like a French word, the one for nursery, the one for brine.