martedì 14 aprile 2020

The trees of the mind are black.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if i were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. - Sylvia Plath. The Disquieting Muses.

I wanted this so much, I waited for so long.
And now that I have it, it's hard to believe it actually is.
The pages of other books tell about the grace and courage with which other women live.
But it's not my life. I live on the edge.
My world is made of fog, dark figures, awful scenarios…
The pastel monotone depress me.
So I have to look off the books.
But I don't want to.
I'll stay here.

🎧 Eclipse. Wooden Shjips.