“okay, there’s a few heartbreaks that chocolate can’t fix.
but that’s what the rain boots are for.
because rain will wash away everything, if you let it.
i want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that’s the way my mom taught me. “
“the campus, an academy of trees,
under which some hand, the wind’s i guess,
had scattered the pale light
of thousands of spring beauties,
petals stained with pink veins;
secret, blooming for themselves.
we sat among them.
your long fingers, thin body,
and long bones of improbable genius;
some scattered gene as kafka must have had.
your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.
that simple that was myself, half conscious,
as though each moment was a page
where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type
struck against the moving ribbon.
the light air, the restless leaves;
the ripple of time warped by our longing.
there, as if we were painted
by some unknown impressionist.”
-ruth stone, in the next galaxy.
“then the rain came, like stammered kisses at first
on the back of my neck”
-carol ann duffy.
“i want to think again of dangerous and noble things.
i want to be light and frolicsome.
i want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though i had wings.”
“nothing she did
what she meant
but still her life
could be called a monument
shaped in a slant
of available light
and set to the movement
of possible music”
"her charm is in her silence
she speaks in extended parenthesis”
“now i am going back
and i have ripped my hand
from your hand as i said i would
and i have made it this far
as i said i would”
“this place where you are right now
god circled on a map for you.”
“the speaker in this case
is a middle-aged witch, me-
tangled on my two great arms,
my face in a book
and my mouth wide,
ready to tell you a story or two.
i have come to remind you,
all of you:
alice, samuel, kurt, eleanor,
jane, brian, maryel,
all of you draw near.
at fifty-six do you remember?
do you remember when you
were read to as a child?
at twenty-two have you forgotten?
forgotten the ten P.M. dreams
where the wicked king
went up in smoke?
are you comatose?
are you undersea?
let me present to you this boy.
he is sixteen and he wants some answers.
he is each of us.
i mean you.
i mean me.
it is not enough to read hesse
and drink clam chowder
we must have the answers.
the boy has found a gold key
and he is looking for what it will open.
upon finding a string
he would look for a harp.
therefore he holds the key tightly.
its secrets whimper
like a dog in heat.
he turns the key.
it opens this book of odd tales
which transform the brothers grimm.
as if an enlarged paper clip
could be a piece of sculpture.
(and it could.)”
-anne sexton, “the gold key”.
“i should sit on a rock off cornwall and comb my hair.
i should wear tiger pants, i should have an affair.
we should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
me and you
once you were beautiful.
in new york, in hollywood, the men said: ‘through?
gee baby, you are rare.’
you acted, acted for the thrill.
the impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
i try to keep him in,
an old pole for the lightning,
the acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
he lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
flogged trolley. the sparks are blue.
the blue sparks spill,
splitting like quartz into a million bits.”