“ So on a summer’s day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying “that is all” more and more ponderously, until even the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too, That is all. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking, far away barking and barking.
— Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway
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Song of the Day:
Attachment by Jeff Pianki
I realise we’ll all leave someday,
to nourish the ground from where we came.
A name engraved in stone sits where we lay.
To be human is to learn to live with fate,
for we must die but also learn to be okay.
It still hasn’t sunk in just yet,
that one day I must take my last breath.
The family and friends I would have left,
‘cause what we know is what we never expect,
and with each start there is always an end.
I’ve been listening to him on repeat.
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“ He would protect her with his heart for a little while.
— D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
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“ Loneliness clarifies. Here silence stands
Like heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken,
Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken,
Luminously-people air ascends;
And past the poppies bluish neutral distance
Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach
Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence
Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.
— Philip Larkin, Herein Collected Poems
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“ How to recall such music, when the street
Darkens? Among the rain and stone places
I find only an ancient sadness falling,
Only hurrying and troubled faces,
The walking of girls’ vulnerable feet,
The heart in its own endless silence kneeling.
— Philip Larkin, Collected Poems
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Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
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The guitar
makes dreams cry.
The sobbing of lost
souls
escapes through its round
mouth.
And like the tarantula,
it spins a huge star
and tracks down the sighs
that float in its black
wooden cistern.
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“ Every time, I was pretending, without knowing
that I could lay my body like a soul in his hands
and he would not take it. But he might. But he would not.
— Sharon Olds, The Seeker in Blood, Tin, Straw
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