We sleep in language, if language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.
Then it is true,
true that people no longer await a Savior,
that lovesick girls gouge their own naive eyes
with their knitting needles?
Forugh Farrokhzad, “A Visitation at Night.”
as long as you want
and then to lie silently
like deer tracks in the
freshly-fallen snow beside
the one you love.
You’ve no idea
since I bled.
Quote with 115 notes
she kills me
I divine her
And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet … and I will eat you slowly with kisses…
Quote with 80 notes
More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant’s tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.
I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.
[She] is a woman who has the great and terrible gift of being reborn. The only trouble is, she has to die first.
Sylvia Plath, on Lady Lazarus, Plath’s comments on the Ariel poems, from a typescript she prepared for a radio broadcast that was never delivered
Quote with 111 notes
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Hurts me as the world hurts God.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.
If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips.
it is because I hear a man climb stairs and clear his throat outside the door.
Leonard Cohen, Poem (from Let Us Compare Mythologies)
Quote with 44 notes
I am stuffing your mouth with your
promises and watching
you vomit them out upon my face.
Quote with 26 notes
He never described himself as a poet or his work as poetry. The fact that the lines do not come to the edge of the page is no guarantee. Poetry is a verdict, not an occupation. He hated to argue about the techniques of verse. The poem is a dirty, bloody, burning thing that has to be grabbed first with bare hands. Once the fire celebrated Light, the dirt Humility, the blood Sacrifice. Now the poets are professional fire-eaters, freelancing at any carnival. The fire goes down easily and honours no one in particular.
Quote with 140 notes
Her hair and his beard are hopelessly tangled.
When he puts his mouth against her shoulder
she is uncertain whether her shoulder
has given or received the kiss.
All her flesh is like a mouth.
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