a matter of some regret

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CONFLUENCE

Beneath the amber hood
of the street lamp,
beside the black gates
of the somnolent park,
we are eyed by fanlights,
flanked by motionless cars.

In this blind Georgian lane
you lean in
to claim a kiss.

I offer you my goodnight lips,
staying like a shut purse
in your embrace,
wary after years
of opening too fast
my burns still hurt and proud.

Yet the sweetness of your mouth,
and your tongue — a luscious,
sinuous sea-creature –
is a feast I cannot resist;

nor can I pull back
from the strength in your arms
as you draw me close,
loosening your coat
to fold me
in your cinnamon heat.

Here it is, timeless,
a scene on a street:

a man and a woman
tongued and grooved
into one.

—Katie Donovan

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[Writing] forces you to think. It forces you to work the thing through. Nothing comes to us out of the blue, very easily, you know. So if you want to understand what you’re thinking, you kind of have to work it through and write it. And the only way to work it through, for me, is to write it.
Joan Didion, from an interview in The Believer

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Guillem, or Guillaume de Cabestanh, or Cabestaing, or Cabestan, had loved the lady of Roussillon, Soremonde, Sermonde, or Marguerite, wife of the seigneur Raymond of Roussillon, who, in a fit of jealous rage, had had the troubadour slaughtered and had served his heart to the lady in a dish. Whereupon, declaring that no less precious food should thereafter pass her lips, the lady had, variously, starved herself to death or flung herself out the window, in which case her blood had forever colored the ruddy rocks of Roussillon.
A.S. Byatt, “Still Life” (via lligv)

(via onherwayrejoicing)

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YEARN ON

I want you to feel
the unbearable lack of me.
I want your skin
to yearn for the soft lure of mine;
I want those hints of red on your canvas
to deepen in passion for me:
carmine, burgundy.
I want you to keep stubbing your toe
on the memory of me;
I want your head to be dizzy
and your stomach in a spin;
I want you to hear my voice
in your ear, to touch your face
imagining it is my hand.
I want your body to shiver and quiver
at the mere idea of mine.
I want you to feel as though
life after me is dull, and pointless,
and very, very aggravating;
that with me you were lifted
on a current you waited all your life to find,
and had despaired of finding,
as though you were wading
through a soggy swill of inanity and ugliness
every minute we are apart.
I want you to drive yourself crazy
with the fantasy of me,
and how we will meet again, against all odds,
and there will be tears and flowers,
and the vast relief of not I,
but us.
I am haunting your dreams,
conducting these fevers
from a distance,
a distance that leaves me weeping,
and storming,
and bereft.

—Katie Donovan

Filed under katie donovan poetry quotes longing yearning love wanting