Poetry slips into my solitude
It’s beautiful out there -fields, little lakes and winter trees in February sunlight, every car park a shining mosaic.
It is early February: sometimes bitter with defeated grey clouds, and other times a brief reminder of spring (hope). I cuddle up on the corner of my bed at 7 a.m., illuminated by sunlight, trying to assert stillness upon my mind.
I fail every 30 seconds, knowing (but never fully grasping) that stillness is found, not asserted. In the meantime, some poetry slips into my solitude, for which I am ever grateful.
The book I’ve been reading rests on my knee. You sleep. It’s beautiful out there - fields, little lakes and winter trees in February sunlight, every car park a shining mosaic. Long radiant minutes, your hand in my hand, still warm, still warm.
— Wendy Cope, On A Train
i don't know how many times i've risen from the ashes, but i am stronger now than i was when you met me; you woke in me the dreaming when i thought the dreaming was dead & you taught me that our scars make us beautiful—i remember when you saw the scars from my gallbladder surgery, and you told me they looked like japanese flowers; i recall the trip to philly and dracula's ball, i remember seeing the producers, our walk in autumn around Edinboro, going to that gay bar with josh & cody, i remember meeting andy and leotie, i remember the ren faire and how you told me to be careful with the sangria wine which i became quite fond of, i remember drinking appletini's in erie, i remember being a part of your play, so many recollections i don't think i can name them all, i remember your little pink car, i remember the regret that came when i pushed you away because of both my confusion and rage, i remember the apology that wasn't enough, i remember that it was my fault that we were no longer friends; and i will forever be sorry for it—i saw a pink sunset and wept because you were all i could think of, and the memories may have forgotten you but i will forever remember that otherwordly girl that smelled of roses; you were unforgettable—& the only woman i ever loved.
— Linda M. Crate, pink sunsets are for weeping
It was like getting a love letter from a tree Eyes closed forever to find you — There is a life which if I could have it I would have chosen for myself from the beginning
— Franz Wright, The Poem
There’s a lot of noise on the internet, so if you’re looking for guided consumption on intentional art, here you go:
Beautiful illustrations by Holly Warburton.
This article on women’s knowledge of the darkest realms of experience and the sense of freedom and solidarity contained therein.
This lovely album I stumbled upon from Palm Beach (2019)
P.S. If you feel like you didn’t/couldn’t ride the waves of the new year freshness, it’s okay, because:
Alternatively, you don’t have a new year; you have new moments, stages, realizations, and a soft sense of the day-to-day - and tbh, nothing sounds more delectable. Let me know how that’s going.