prelude
man is not a tree

soaring falcon, noble Poet, come to my aid: bear me aloft to the realm of more luminous truths: one’s true homeland is not the country of one’s birth: man is not a tree: help me live without roots: ever on the move: my only sustenance your nourishing language: a tongue without a history, a hermetic verbal universe, a shimmering mirage: a lightning bolt or a scimitar: the Word freed after centuries of bondage: the illusion of the bird who flies into the canvas to peck at the painted grapes: language-as-transparency, language-as-reflection…

Juan Goytisolo, Count Julian

Morning, by Frank O’Hara

I’ve got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

The Exiled II

We speak languages that are not ours
we walk around without passports
or identity papers
we write hopeless letters
that we don’t send
we are numerous forlorn intruders
survivors
super-survivors
and at times that
make us feel guilty.

Cristina Peri Rossi, State of Exile. Translated from Spanish by Marilyn Buck.

Nancy Wake, who has died in London just before her 99th birthday, was a New Zealander brought up in Australia. She became a nurse, a journalist who interviewed Adolf Hitler, a wealthy French socialite, a British agent and a French resistance leader. She led 7,000 guerrilla fighters in battles against the Nazis in the northern Auvergne, just before the D-Day landings in 1944. On one occasion, she strangled an SS sentry with her bare hands. On another, she cycled 500 miles to replace lost codes. In June 1944, she led her fighters in an attack on the Gestapo headquarters at Montlucon in central France.

Ms Wake was furious the TV series [later made about her life] suggested she had had a love affair with one of her fellow fighters. She was too busy killing Nazis for amorous entanglements, she said.

Nancy recalled later in life that her parachute had snagged in a tree. The French resistance fighter who freed her said he wished all trees bore “such beautiful fruit.” Nancy retorted: “Don’t give me that French shit.”

Ever since you pressed me
beneath the mimosa tree, the pink
tufts of flower, the broken light,
your broken breath so full
of love and “shush, shush,” I picture Rebecca
suspended above the highway. I like
to think that someone saw her
silhouette like a bud on a bough,
and thought how lovely
she will be in bloom.

Sounds about right (C/O Exeter/Bennington/Salinger fans):

"She said she didn’t think she’d known more than three girls on the train — Martha Farrar, Tippie Tibbett, and Eleanor somebody, whom she’d met years ago, in her boarding-school days, at Exeter or someplace. Everybody else on the train, Franny said, looked very Smith, except for two absolutely Vassar types and one absolutely Bennington or Sarah Lawrence type. The Bennington-Sarah Lawrence type looked like she’d spent the whole train ride in the john, sculpting or painting or something, or as though she had a leotard on under her dress."

JD Salinger, “Franny and Zooey” (via sarahlawrencegirls)
If you write in Japanese or Vietnamese or Portuguese you have to wait to be translated, and translated literature never really works immediately as English literature unless it wins the Nobel or some big prize. I’m saying language is a passport. A dubious, dangerous passport too.
I just have to add: and #READWOMENOFCOLOR2014

About #READWOMEN2014 at PG:
http://www.playgroundmag.net/musica/articulos-de-musica/columnas-musicales/el-ano-de-las-escritoras

I just have to add: and #READWOMENOFCOLOR2014

About #READWOMEN2014 at PG:

http://www.playgroundmag.net/musica/articulos-de-musica/columnas-musicales/el-ano-de-las-escritoras

THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER, BY KRISTEN MARTIN AND MAUREEN DEVENNY

The Heart Wears a T-Shirt in the Pool

The Heart Needs to Ask the Receptionist for a Tampon

The Heart Has Gas Pains

The Heart Plays Clarinet

The Heart Lies About Its Height on OkCupid

The Heart Always Has Pit Stains

The Heart’s Upper Lip Gets Stuck to Its Dry Teeth When it Smiles

The Heart’s Leggings Have a Hole in the Crotch

The Heart Only Pretends to Read the New Yorker Fiction

The Heart’s Yogurt Exploded in Its Purse

The Heart Had an Allergic Reaction to Nair

The Heart Poses With Its Tongue Out When It’s Drunk

The Heart is Worried That the Dry Shampoo Isn’t Fooling Anyone

The Heart’s Glasses are Always Crooked

The Heart Gets Red Wine Teeth

The Heart Can’t Tell if it Has Bad Reception or People Just Aren’t Texting it Back

The Heart Struggles to Maintain Critical Distance

The Heart Grinds Its Teeth at Night

The Heart Tucked Its Skirt Into Its Tights

The Heart Got Scolded By Its Manicurist

The Heart Can’t Get Anyone to Join Its Carson McCullers Book Club

from http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/the-heart-is-a-lonely-hunter

Racism should never have happened and so you don’t get a cookie for reducing it.

 Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Americanah (via mistyknights)

(via crossettlibrary)