The joy of being alone, eating the honey of words.
The easiest thing to feel is sadness.
From so much loving and journeying, books emerge.
And if they don’t contain kisses or landscapes,
if they don’t contain a man with his hands full,
if they don’t contain a woman in every drop,
hunger, desire, anger, roads,
they are no use as a shield or a bell:
they have no eyes, and won’t be able to open them,
they have the dead sound of precepts.
I loved the entangling of flesh,
and out of blood and love I carved my poems.
In hard earth I brought a rose to flower,
fought over by fire and dew.
That’s how I could keep on singing.
There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.
But I admired her because didn’t fight, because she retreated into her word of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.
Most men and women lead lives at the worst so painful, at the best so monotonous, poor and limited that the urge to escape, the longing to transcend themselves if only for a few moments, is and has always been one of the principal appetites of the soul.
This was another of our fears: that Life wouldn’t turn out to be like Literature.
red on top (by Shawna Lemay)