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Diving into the Wreck

fuckyeahpoetry:

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

—Adrienne Rich

Tuesday August 19th // Filed under: adrienne rich, diving into the wreck, poetry,
My idea of rich is that you can buy every book you ever want without looking at the price and you’re never around assholes. That’s the two things to really fight for in life.
— John Waters  (via detailsdetales)

(Source: marion--crane, via royhkeasuttura)

Monday August 18th // Filed under: john waters, quote,

Tony Hoagland, “Personal”

poem-locker:

Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.

Sunday August 17th // Filed under: tony hoagland, personal, poetry,
helenafrank:

23.2.2014 | no. 963 | “A PIECE A DAY” by Helena Frank

helenafrank:

23.2.2014 | no. 963 | “A PIECE A DAY” by Helena Frank

Saturday August 9th // Filed under: helena frank, illustration,
I imagined that I was tainted with a secret pollution, imperceptible to most.
Donna Tartt, “The Secret History” (via mirroir)

(Source: hush-syrup, via lifeinpoetry)

Tuesday August 5th //
super1eklectic:

llvnos:

This. All of this.

MUTHAFUCKIN THANK YOU!

super1eklectic:

llvnos:

This. All of this.

MUTHAFUCKIN THANK YOU!

(via poweredbygirl)

Monday July 28th // Filed under: kai davis, twitter,
It is no longer an illness or a passing fit: it is I.
Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea  (via mirroir)

(Source: stxxz.us, via lifeinpoetry)

Sunday July 27th // Filed under: jean-paul sartre, quote,
Wake up every morning and tell yourself that you’re a badass bitch from hell and that no one can fuck with you and then don’t let anybody fuck with you.
— Kate Nash’s advice to college students  (via einhorny)

(Source: morganmarguerite, via elephantgrrrl)

Sunday July 27th //
Friday July 25th // Filed under: modern family, meryl streep, gif,
We don’t fucking care if you like it… It is an impressively arrogant move to conclude that just because you don’t like something, it is empirically not good. I don’t like Chinese food, but I don’t write articles trying to prove it doesn’t exist.
— Tina Fey on men stating that women aren’t funny (via thevogonpoetess)

(via poweredbygirl)

Thursday July 24th // Filed under: tina fey, quote,