When we are goneAfterlife by John Burnside
our lives will continue without us …
… someone else gathering plums
from this tree in the garden,
someone else thinking this thought
in a room filled with stars
and coming to no conclusion
other than this –
this bungled joy, this inarticulate
conviction that the future cannot come
without the grace
of setting things aside,
of giving up
the phantom of a soul
that only seemed to be
while it was passing.
This was posted 2 months ago. It has 15 notes.
My mother never forgave my fatherStanley Kunitz, The Portrait
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
This was posted 3 months ago. It has 29 notes.
My friend walks soft as a weaving on the windDiane di Prima
He backlights my dreams
He has built altars beside my bed
I awake in the smell of his hair & cannot remember
his name, or my own.
This was posted 3 months ago. It has 6 notes.
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Did I leave something out?Leonard Cohen, Book Of Longing
Was there some world I failed to embrace?
This was posted 6 months ago. It has 38 notes.
(Photograph by Eugène Atget)
This was posted 6 months ago. It has 47 notes.