I find it so strange when people take a line from one of my pieces, and hold it to their chests, saying, yes, this one, yes, yes. I’m left here wondering what it is about that sentence that means so much to them: is it the words, is it the feel, the smell, taste, hope, meaning? I’m not sure, I’m not sure what I have to offer anyone but myself, and so I put my pieces out and never think that they will touch other people. I write because it means something to me, and sometimes at the end, I think, this is not what it was at the beginning, this is not what it meant to me, but they’re still words, they’re still words, and words mean everything. And then you, dear reader, find those words and you give them milk, and you take them home, and make them feel loved, and that’s what confuses and delights me, because I don’t know what my words mean but maybe, maybe, maybe, you do.
If I could fill my birdcage chest
with prismflies that burned and fluttered,
would the night be afraid? Would Winter melt
If within my wrists there lay a secret flame,
as small as scars and hope,
and your lips were as kindle when pressed
to my skin, what then would follow
but a forest fire and sacred laughter?
Together we will warm the frozen wastelands
of the human heart. Together we will watch the Gods weep
when their puppet-strings are set afire, and we are truly
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
— "Preludes", T.S. Eliot, Prufrock & Other Observations (1917)
You are wonderful and alive and stunning.
I have this little notebook and I have five little scrawled lines of maybe one day little poems and it’s strange, because I have this very little heart and the words are too big for me to wear, like a baggy old cardigan that’s warm and smells wonderful but is far too big for little old me.
Collection update: I have first drafts of about twenty poems. This is an exhilarating process. x