I think you might have just become one of my favorite poets?? your writing is so gorgeous and somewhat synaesthetic in a really delightful, wondrous way.
Ah that means so much. Thanks for the positive comment, really. I needed this today. Have a great day/night <3
“The important parts exist in the silences between the words.”
“Both you and I have a lot of intensive presence. And an enormous ability to put ourselves in other people’s emotions. And especially each other’s. We also have an intensive ability to affect other people and make them experience what we experience. And we have an ability to affect each other. We make each other alive. Doesn’t make a difference if it hurts.”
“Why does even the best person hold back something from another? Why not say directly what we feel if we know that what we entrust won’t be scattered to the winds? As it is, everyone looks much tougher than he really is, as if he felt it’d be an insult to his feeling if he expressed them too readily.”
“Do you imagine at night someone
going to bed the very moment
you are going to bed? Turning
out the light?
And isn’t it so quiet you swear
the heart is telepathic.
Beckian Fritz Goldberg, from “Eros in His Striped Shirt,” In the Badlands of Desire (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 1993)
“Hospice recommended we starve him. I did.
I can sleep all day. Things happen and my father dies.
I go to Italy, I fall apart under Tintoretto, those smudgy
crucifixions. In another life, I am promised to a lawyer.
I have a wedding chest heavy with linen.
When I wake in a small boat filling with ocean,
my father sews the white dress into my skin.
I am given medicine to help me sleep. People are hired
to stand around my bed and hold my wrists down while
I writhe. This isn’t what I imagined, but isn’t necessarily worse.
The wedding plate shatters. My once-beloved reads me my
Miranda rights. Owls keep crashing into the bedroom
window mid-day and I’m not allowed to touch them.
I’m made to kneel at a safe distance. My father always
makes me turn away while he snaps the owl’s neck.
He is saving it, I know this, from something worse.
But I have the right to see what happens to their yellow
eyes. Do they stay open? Does he stroke their wings to calm
them down until, in his hands, they go slack?
Anything I say can and will be used against me
in the middle of the night. Boat, I dream, fills with
talons. I have the right to use them how I want.”