24 February 2012

(my favorite sp)

Two Views of a Cadaver Room

The day she visited the dissecting room
They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey,
Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume
Of the death vats clung to them;
The white-smocked boys started working.
The head of his cadaver had caved in,
And she could scarcely make out anything
In that rubble of scull plates and old leather.
A sallow piece of string held it together.

In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow.
He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom.

In Brueghel's panorama of smoke and slaughter,
Two people only are blind to the carrion army:
He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin
Skirts, sings in the direction
Of her bare shoulder, while she bends,
Fingering a leaflet of music, over him,
Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands
Of the death's-head shadowing their song.
These Flemish lovers flourish; not for long.

Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country
Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner.

Sylvia Plath

17 February 2012

of late,

and entirely against my will, I have been:

- obsessed with Quentin Tarantino films
- using vegan shampoo
- drinking nothing but Orange Pekoe tea
- contemplating an unorthodox piercing
- taking extra shifts at work
- steeling myself to watch Blue Velvet, Midnight Cowboy and Naked Lunch (no, its not porn!)
- eating very seedy, healthy bread
- trying to explain awful poetry
- direly wanting to dye my hair blue (because of this)
- considering universities outside the province
- listening to The Doors
- psyching myself up to the concept of driving
- ignoring fun literature
- staying up too late
- enjoying the work of Sean Penn
- trying to be sociable
- trying to paint (for this)

08 February 2012

calligraphy practice

I wrote out alphabets and quotes while listening to Anna Karenina on audiobook. I am no pro, but I think that the fruits of my first attempts are bordering upon beautiful. Slowly but surely, my fingers and my fountain pen aquaint themselves.