so it has come to this
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray — grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.
Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
because what leaves us
There’s only one current of this sacred river
but I still want to remain faithful
to my first astonishments
to recognize as wisdom the child’s wonder
and to carry in myself until the end of the path
in the woods of my childhood
dappled with patches of sunlight
to search for it everywhere
in museums in the shade of churches
this path on which I ran unaware …” —Anna Kamieńska, from “A Path in the Woods”, first poem in Astonishments, translated by G. Drabik and D. Curzon (via growing-orbits)
I tear at the sutures keeping me together
I didn’t ask anybody to repair my broken ribs
I want the fresh blood waterfall out my chest
This is what love does to me:
It stains the outside with my inside.
Her hand touched me at the wrist.
“If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn’t you?”
I didn’t say anything.” —The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje (via clavicola)
I held a blood-soaked patch on my hip.
Just so I could blossom so beautifully,
I bit back the pain.
I liked to believe I was brave.
See my scar, I survived you.
But now, I unearth
a different kind of bravery
when I explore the terrains
of your anatomy.
I am no topographer,
the cracks in your hands are too deep.
I could drown in the words you say.
Your spidery veins may prove
poisonous to my gossamer skin.
Instead, envelop me in the tides of your sea.
Let me was ashore, bathed in your love.
in spite of the inevitable.
we can’t cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
it will have known a victory just as
ours.” —Charles Bukowski - The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps (via henrycharlesbukowski)