#AmericanWriters
The decorum of fire... —Pablo Neruda We learned the decorum of fire, the flame’s curious symmetry, the blue heat at the center of the…
I am not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,
When the devil brings him, like a Christmas puppy, examine his downy fur & smell his small paws for the scent of sulphur.
It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books
I try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.
When I am an old lady the young men will come to me & sit trembling at my trembling
He says he is a perfect poet. He lives alone, with his perfect m… & sometimes they don’t even sp… So perfectly do they ‘communicate.… He lives alone, his greatest pleas…
You open to me a little, then grow afraid and close again, a small boy
Narrowing life because of the fear… narrowing it between the dust mote… narrowing the pink baby between the green-limbed monsters, & the drooling idiots,
What happens when the juice of the… drenches you with its lemony tang, its tart swe… & your whole body stings with… so that your toes sing to your mou…
And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. —William Blake Because I would not admit that I had nurtured
When we become truly ourselves, we… —Suzuki Sick of the self, the self—seducing self— with its games, its fears,
I mourn a dead friend, like myself… —Pablo Neruda about César Vallej… I looked at the book. ‘It will stand,’ I thought. Not a palace
center The best slave does not need to be beaten. She beats herself. Not with a leather whip,
After the first astounding rush, after the weeks at the lake, the crystal, the clouds, the water… the snow breaking under our boots… & the long mornings in bed. .…