Speeches
Discourses
Whatever you'd like to call
Are much less liberating than they sound (aren't they all)
Replace with synonyms to avoid repetition
Comprehensive paragraphs and meaningful diction
Always searching for the right expression
Checking the format of each citation
Preoccupied with a wrong pronunciation
And yes I have attended that kind of training
By and large very draining
Only thing I recall was the struggle remaining
...As if the lack of rhyme is an unforgivable crime
Even my questions are voiced out I am still in doubt
Or is it insecurity? Possibly —
But more precisely —
Draft and rewrite until your inner monologues start with “we”
Repeating ourselves for eternity
Took a long long way to finally get somewhere — or Anywhere
(And I have been intrigued, confused, humiliated,
and terrified to this day)
In hope that I would never expose my disguise
The fake persona and dramatic tone I wish to hide
That anyone familiar with the public examination would immediately recognize
Ever since have I been mortified
Am I too self-aware or insensitive?
Should I pretend to exist in a different continuum?
Can I finally get the shame out of my system?
Go back in time and back to the future
As I approach my own midlife crisis
Or should I say — Wait until you reach the age of Prufrock
Those are poetry, words of honesty, instead of bollocks
Must I swallow it all and praise the aftertaste boiling in my throat
Who so loveth me that he
Will give his precious life for me?
I shall be set free from the stone
If some one drowns for me in the sea,
I shall have life, life of my own,—
For life I ache.
I long for the singing blood,
The stone is so still and cold.
I dream of life, life is good.
Will no one love me and be bold
And me awake?
·······
I weep and weep alone,
Weep always for my stone.
What joy is my blood to me
If it ripens like red wine?
It cannot call back from the sea
The life that was given for mine,
Given for Love's sake.
We have never been as happy or as miserable. Our quarrels are portentous, tremendous, violent. We are both wrathful to the point of madness; we desire death. My face is ravaged by tears, the veins on my temple swell. Hugo’s mouth trembles. One cry from me brings him suddenly into my arms, sobbing. And then he desires me physically. We cry and kiss and come at the same moment. And the next moment we analyze and talk rationally. It is like the life of the Russians in The Idiot. It is hysteria. In cooler moments I wonder at the extravagance of our feelings. Dullness and peace are forever over.
I really believe that if I were not a writer, not a creator, not an experimenter, I might have been a very faithful wife. I think highly of faithfulness. But my temperament belongs to the writer, not to the woman. Such a separation may seem childish, but it is possible. Subtract the overintensity, the sizzling of ideas, and you get a woman who loves perfection. And faithfulness is one of the perfections. It seems stupid and unintelligent to me now because I have bigger plans in mind.
A startlingly white face, burning eyes. June Mansfield, Henry’s wife. As she came towards me from the darkness of my garden into the light of the doorway I saw for the first time the most beautiful woman on earth.
