The Dreaded Mullet Hem.
Woman Watches Ocean on a Reef through a Glass-Bottomed Boat
By Angela Jackson
In the ocean one fish
swallows the other:
a geometric progression of
You are bigger than I.
The calamity of love
swelling out larger than us.
And what destiny partakes of
Swallows the cause and effect:
eyes and kissing mouths and enlarged
parts wanting to breathe and wanting.
There is no gentle sense to this.
Only a kind of terror
at the chain
of events, the scale of loss, the ordered
destruction one against the other—
all that something larger
awaits its moment.
by Jan Owens.
Titian’s Young Englishman with a Glove, circa 1530
It happened in Physics,
reading a Library art book under the desk,
(the lesson was Archimedes in the bath)
I turned a page and fell
for an older man, and anonymous at that,
hardly ideal –
he was four hundred and forty-five,
I was fourteen.
‘Eureka!’ streaked each thought
(I prayed no-one would hear)
and Paradise all term
was page 179
(I prayed no-one would guess).
my fingers, sticky with toffee and bliss,
failed to entice him from his century;
his cool grey stare
fastened me firmly in mine.
I got six overdues,
suspension of borrowing rights
and a D in Physics.
But had by heart what Archimedes proves.
Ten years later I married:
a European with cool grey eyes,
by Pablo Neruda.
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
As Once The Winged Energy of Delight
by Rainer Maria Rilke
As once the winged energy of delight
carried you over childhood’s dark abysses,
now beyond your own life build the great
arch of unimagined bridges.
Wonders happen if we can succeed
in passing through the harshest danger;
but only in a bright and purely granted
achievement can we realize the wonder.
To work with Things in the indescribable
relationship is not too hard for us;
the pattern grows more intricate and subtle,
and being swept along is not enough.
Take your practiced powers and stretch them out
until they span the chasm between two
contradictions…For the god
wants to know himself in you.
Metal coffin purse, iPhone, and the Eleventh Doctor. So I think I’ll be okay.
x-acto knife and iphone for the first two, but that’s irrelevant, because the last show I watched on TV was Spartacus, and he’ll carve those shambling fuckers right up. I’m just gonna offer moral support. And my body. In payment. Because. Spartacus.
A bag of baby carrots, a wine class full of Coke Zero, and Hannibal Lector. I’M SCREWED!
Coffee cup. Hair brush. Ultimate Spider-man.
Yeah, I’m doomed.
Glass of ice water, ballpoint pen, Finn from Adventure Time. I’m so dead.
Fuck yes motherfuckers; two computers and fucking DEaN WINCHESTER
The bad news is I’m armed with a book and a remote control. The good news is I’m traveling with BUFFY FUCKING SUMMERS.
I put this in my drafts so I could later write that I had a mobile phone and a copy of Game of Thrones to use, but that depending on who you count as the main character of the HBO Game of Thrones I was probably going to be fine anyway..
I now have a Bea cat, my mobile phone and the last thing I watched was My Cat from Hell so I’ve got Jackson Galaxy, a cat behaviourlist/musician who looks like a biker and I’m probably fucked.
I’m reblogging this just to say I’m going to wind up with nothing on the one hand, a bag of trail mix in the other and Patrick Jane from The Mentalist. But more importantly I had to reply to cluelessnu and say I love that show! =D I recently went through all 4 seasons and adored every minute of it.
the cat, mac mini remote and the 11th Doctor.
this could go either way :D
A bottle of nailpolish remover (flammable, I guess?) a pillow (as a shield?) and JOHN REESE FROM PERSON OF INTEREST.
Oh yeah, I’m golden.
My Android phone, my laptop, and FUCKING MACGUYVER. I WILL LIVE. MY ELECTRONIC DEVICES WILL NOT.
An afghan, my laptop and Rick Castle—so Beckett, Esposito, Ryan, Lainie, Alexis, Martha and probably Captain Gates will be busting down the door to rescue us soon enough, and in the meantime I can let Castle use my laptop to stay distracted and/or execute his carefully honed zombie survival plan while I huddle under this blanket? WORKS FOR ME.
Am jealous of Dira. I have a Uni-ball pen and one of those old-fashioned “I could clock a zombie with this” ringing phones that is at least one step newer in evolution than a rotary. Convenient carrying/clocking handle, as well. Which is good, because the last thing I watched is FRIENDS—so I’ll give Joey the pen and use him as cover, but I still think me and the phone aren’t going to make it far. Why couldn’t I have answered this 24 hours ago, when I’d just finished an ep of SVU? I think Olivia would be good for this. She at least carries a gun and is confident in her sexuality.
My laptop, my iPhone, and MOTHERFUCKING JEAN-LUC PICARD. \o/ There will be no bloodshed—he will somehow, against all odds, negotiate a truce with the zombies, with the help of Lt. Commander Data, who, as an android, can’t be infected. Counselor Troi will sense a great deal of formless anger from the zombies, and everyone will be worried about Worf getting infected, because zombie Klingons could seriously fuck your shit up.
Okay, a copy of The White Devil by Webster, a very blunt red pencil and Ragnar Lodbrok. I actually am probably going to be okay. I mean, my weapons are useless but Ragnar is awesome. Plus I am going to handwave that Lagertha and Rollo and the rest of Ragnar’s crew are also alive, and therefore I am going to be a-okay. In that I am going to hide, and they are going to slay the zombie army.
by Joanna Guthrie.
I offer to cook you an egg, at least:
that’s something I can do. Okay
you say, the bent nape of your neck facing me
your thinking fingers searching over the keyboard.
So I find a pan, let water pour in
thumb the lighter
to light the heat
so the water can set to rising.
The gas flame floats like bluebells.
It is quiet and luminous
outside, the leaves are nearly ready, dipping
in crinkled discs, still damp, settling in
for the long season. I take an egg from the box
lower it in and burn my thumb
the egg tumbles and thumps the pan’s edges –
the water fizzes slightly around its turn.
Beyond here there’ll be lambs
tottering on spotless flares
butting her for milk
and on the lanes, frogs squashed to tracing-paper
their legs a dry curl.
The lambs will spring four feet clear from the grass
with the shock of the land, the crows will fly low
so the lambs turn their heads. The fields will be greening.
The egg knocks against the pan.
The house ticks over.
You quarter the egg later and its yolk
the yolk of this egg alone
is a yellow of gorse, of dandelion, of the centre of sun
and you eat it on bread, in the afternoon, in this quiet.
Oh, yay! If you followed my DW or LJ, you know I LURVE her. Perfect.
Sometimes when I want inspiration for dinner I imagine Nigella Lawson looking over my shoulder, hmming, and then coming up with something glorious. I love her too.