”It’s hard to talk about the good stuff when you’re living the good stuff. I don’t see life always through the eyes of a songwriter, and maybe I should because I’d write more songs. I have a tendency to live life and then feel upset because I haven’t played the guitar in a long time. It’s like not masturbating for a long time.”
- Martha Wainwright, The Guardian, 06 May 2008
What is mine, … the archipelago arched with an anguished desire to negate itself, as if from maternal anxiety to protect this impossibly delicate tenuity separating one America from another; and these loins which secrete for Europe the hearty liquor of a Gulf Stream, and one of the two slopes of incandescence between which the Equator tightropes toward Europe. And my nonfence island, its brave audacity standing at the stern of this Polynesia, before it, Guadeloupe, split in two down its dorsal line and equal in poverty to us, Haiti where negritude rose for the first time and stated that it believed in its humanity and the funny little tail of Florida where the strangulation of a nigger is being completed, and Africa gigantically caterpillaring up to the Hispanic foot of Europe its nakedness where Death scythes wildly.
And I say to myself Bordeaux and Nantes and Liverpool and New York and San Francisco
not an inch of this world devoid of my fingerprint
Aimé Césaire | Notebook of a Return to the Native Land
- Sylvia Plath
afraid … and excited
You, You, grab the reins.
Drink as much as you can and love as much as you can
And work as much as you can
For you can’t do anything when you are dead.
The motto of this poem heed
And do you it employ:
Waste not and want not while you’re here
The possibles of joy
“Cordelia: or, ‘A Poem Should not Mean, but Be,” | Veronica Forrest Thomson
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.” —from ’A Sort of Song’, by William Carlos Williams