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[keeezwrites]

Abdulla Pashew, from "Union" (trans. Hemn Bakr & Alana Marie Levinson-LaBrosse), pub. Words Without Borders [ID'd]

[keeezwrites]

"You survive this and in some terrible way, which I suppose no one can ever describe, you are compelled, you are corralled, you are bullwhipped into dealing with whatever it is that hurt you. And what is crucial here is that if it hurt you, that is not what’s important. Everybody’s hurt. What is important, what corrals you, what bullwhips you, what drives you, torments you, is that you must find some way of using this to connect you with everyone else alive. This is all you have to do it with. You must understand that your pain is trivial except insofar as you can use it to connect with other people’s pain; and insofar as you can do that with your pain, you can be released from it, and then hopefully it works the other way around too; insofar as I can tell you what it is to suffer, perhaps I can help you to suffer less."

- James Baldwin, The Artist's Struggle for Integrity

[keeezwrites]

Imagine meeting someone who wanted to learn your past not to punish you, but to understand how you needed to be loved.

[keeezwrites]

A.S. Byatt, from Possession

[keeezwrites]

Anne de Marcken, from It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over [ID'd]

[keeezwrites]

William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra

[keeezwrites]

Don’t let anyone who hasn't been in your shoes tell you how to tie your laces.

k.b. // unknown

[keeezwrites]

Silenced

Last I remember is The silence, and my oafish gratitude To finally be rid Of the lost-battle-struggle, Echoing deafening Screams and hollers within My rib cage, until weakened Animalistic groans Screeched, so, scratched at my sternum in Lock-jawed Lamentations of a voice Too hoarse to cry out; The excruciation of my core Cramped up to a leaden ball Til its last whimper, and, so, Its pitiful death, Much anticipated… then… The relief of silence, and Riddance of pain has made Place for Grief, since. What hurts no more, has turned Unfeeling; dead, rigor mortis post Tetanus, So, your departure Has infected my heart. I never guessed this silence Would not turn song, again, And Even though I am partial to believe in miracles, I know my heart, and as far as I can Remember, it will not Come Alive, again. Of this I am Certain.

--- 18-4-2024, M.A. Tempels ©

[keeezwrites]

𝕳𝖊𝖗𝖊’𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖔𝖊𝖙𝖘

[keeezwrites]

“Listen, everyone has a chance. Is it spring, is it morning? Are there trees near you, and does your own soul need comforting? Quick, then—open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song may already be drifting away.”

— Mary Oliver, from “Such Singing in the Wild Branches,” in Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays (via endless-unfolding)

[keeezwrites]

"And then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?"

-Vincent van Gogh

[keeezwrites]

Now that I'm free to be myself, who am I?

Mary Oliver, "Blue Iris." Devotions

[keeezwrites]

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

Robert Frost

[keeezwrites]

“So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me because I, too, am fluent in silence.”

— R. Arnold

[keeezwrites]

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit

[keeezwrites]

“Ten years from now, make sure you can say that you chose your life, you didn’t settle for it.”

— Mandy Hale

[keeezwrites]

— Benjamin Alire Sáenz, “To the Desert” from Dark and Perfect (El Paso: Cinco Puntos Press, 1995) (via lunamonchtuna)