I would have loved him
in any era, in any dark age; I would take him
into the twilight and unwind him, slide
my fingers through his hair and pull him
to his knees. As it is, this afternoon, late
in the twentieth century, I sit on a chair
in the kitchen with my keys in my lap, pressing
the black button on the answering machine
over and over, listening to his message,
his voice strung along the wires outside my window
where the birds balance themselves
and stare off into the trees, thinking
even in the farthest future, in the most
distant universe, I would have recognized
this voice, refracted, as it would be, like light
from a small, uncharted star.
We aren’t suggesting that mental instability or unhappiness makes one a better poet, or a poet at all; and contrary to the romantic notion of the artist suffering for his or her work, we think these writers achieved brilliance in spite of their suffering, not because of it.
US Wow wow, i can’t believe i am finally posting this ! This
picture as been sleeping on my computer for over a year now, i usually
give up with old pieces but I’m really happy i found the will to finish
this as there was already quite come work engaged on it and i rarely do
this kind of compo XD Maybe i rushed it a bit on the end, but at leats it’s completed.
This features Lua and Doriann from my comic project thatwillneverbedone RedMoon :3
FR He beh, j'ai du mal à croire que je poste enfin ce dessin ! Le wip traine sur mon pc depuis plus d'un an, et en général sur un vieux
dessin comme ça je finit par le mettre à la poubelle car trop vieux,
mais je suis contente d’avoir trouver le courage de finir celui ci
jusqu'au bout, d'autant plus que j’y avais déjà pas mal travaillé et que
ce genre de compo est assez inhabituelle pour moi.
Ce dessin représente Lua et Doriann de mon projet de bd quineverrasjamaislejour RedMoon x3
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
Someone spoke to me last night, told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it. I knew I should make myself get up, write it down, but it was late, and I was exhausted from working all day in the garden, moving rocks. Now, I remember only the flavor — not like food, sweet or sharp. More like a fine powder, like dust. And I wasn’t elated or frightened, but simply rapt, aware. That’s how it is sometimes — God comes to your window, all bright light and black wings, and you’re just too tired to open it.
—Dorianne Laux, “Dust,” from What We Carry (BOA Editions, Ltd., 1994)
We continue to speak, if only in whispers,
to something inside us that longs to be named.
We name it the past and drag it behind us,
bag like a lung filled with shadow and song,
dreams of running, the keys to lost names.
Dorianne Laux, from “Dark Charms,” The Book of Men (W. W. Norton, 2012)