" h o l l o w "
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Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)
American poet and playwright. She received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923. The poet Richard Wilbur asserted, "She wrote some of the best sonnets of the century." (Wikipedia)
From our stacks: Poem ‘Witch-Wife’ and title page from Renascence and Other Poems By Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York and London: Harper & Brothers, 1917.
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Donna Tartt, mid 80s
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"I thought the earth remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better."
—Mary Oliver, "Sleeping in the Forest"
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when sappho said “Nightingale, / All you sing / Is desire; / You are the crier / Of coming spring”
and christina rossetti said “Hark! that’s the nightingale, / Telling the self-same tale / Her song told when this ancient earth was young: / So echoes answered when her song was sung / In the first wooded vale”
and dinah craik said “I said to the Nightingale: / “Hail, all hail! / Pierce with thy trill the dark, / Like a glittering music-spark, / When the earth grows pale and dumb.”
and virginia woolf said in a letter to vita sackville-west “Goodnight, dearest honey, my voice will soon be mingling with the nightingales at Long Barn.”
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i was a glass of water
you sipped from me until
i was empty
and you were full.
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Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from Aurora Leigh, 1856.
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If I disappear, it's to hide from the cold. Its grown roots in my chest, too deep to tear out. I need to let this soul thaw, slowly, like misery under the sun. Anything, to feel like an ocean again.
D.K. // misery under the sun
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"I am a skeleton made out of flowers,
Seeds lodge themselves in my bones,
Tangled roots spread across my frame,
A delicate network of nerves and veins,
I am garden on a cemetry floor,
Beauty born of compost and worms,
Watered by rain and shallow tears,
Sinking into rich earth,
Hoping to rise again."
--Treasured Corpse by Imaginarygirltnt
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We forget that some people can maintain so much silence and composure during their suffering.
You could quite easily walk by them and have no idea you just crossed paths with a tornado.
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“Would it be too childish of me to say: I want? But I do want: theater, light, color, paintings, wine and wonder.”
–Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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Follow my Instagram for more rhiannonjanae_
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eu não sou mais a pessoa que corre atrás. eu não sou mais a pessoa que manda mensagem procurando ou buscando por sinal de vida. eu não sou mais a pessoa que implora por atenção ou consideração. eu não sou mais a pessoa que liga mesmo sentindo uma saudade absurda corroer o peito. eu não sou mais a pessoa que sustenta a desculpa de que "talvez esse seja o jeito dele" quando claramente é a falta de interesse que reina no ambiente. eu não sou mais a pessoa que demora em lugares onde não cabe, onde não tem espaço, onde não se encaixa. eu não sou mais a pessoa que dá o braço a torcer por medo de acabar sozinha. eu não sou mais a pessoa que prioriza relacionamentos ao invés da própria saúde mental. eu não sou mais a pessoa que estaria disposta a se perder só para encontrar qualquer outro. eu não quero ser assim. eu não preciso ser assim. e zé, é melhor você estar ciente disso.
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“All books are either dreams or swords”
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you are what is female
you shall be called Eve.
and what is masculine shall be called God.
And from your name Eve we shall take the word Evil.
and from God's, the word Good.
now you understand patriarchal morality.
Judy Grahn (The Work of a Common Woman, 1978)
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Could you hold me today?
I’m struggling to carry this body
Could you love me louder today?
The voices in my head are taking over
Could you reassure me of better days?
I’m struggling already tomorrow
Could you just lie still with me?
The earths pace is just too much some days.
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I love to love.
I love to be loved.
That isn’t a character flaw-
But way too often it is perceived
To be a weak personality trait.
What is weak
Are those that would rather build
A wall around their heart
Than to love it themselves
And teach others how to love it as well.
We set the standard for everyone who is to love us by the way we love ourselves.
- T. Ellen Hill
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And for once, love doesn't sound like your name, but a lot like mine.
D.K. // love like mine
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I see stories in your scars, with them you shine like stars
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