the scent of her lingers::
sandalwood and resin with a smokey finish
temples overflowing with ginger and incense
warm forests of pine and earth
sea salt of baltic seas spilling amber out of her warm hands
soft patchouli necks and wrists
old oak casks of dry red wine
cloves and cinnamon with hints of vanilla
coconut and lavender and rosemary intermingling
::the scent of her lingers
“there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and even during the
the greatest times
we will know it
we will know it
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
we will wait
in that space.”
― Charles Bukowski
Just re-watched a small portion of the movie Sylvia as I worked on a website. I wonder, why did this movie not get better reviews? Your thoughts? I thought Gwyneth Paltrow was brilliant (though maybe I’m biased). I found the movie beautiful and sad and poetic. Exactly what a movie about Sylvia Plath should be.
Did you see the movie? What were your thoughts? I know, it’s several years since the movie came out, but I stumbled into it again today.
The Moon and the Yew Tree
by Sylvia Plath
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky –
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.
The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can’t reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.
Rainer Maria Rilke
A gene targets the thirst.
Like an itch scratched only once, then forgotten.
She wimpers without weeping;
and her cries echo through the matrix.
I read this poem by Mary Oliver on Honey at the Table and I just had to post it here. It’s beautiful. (She happens to have some beautifully appropriate photos posted with it). Thanks for the inspiration! I think I need to pick up a book of Mary Oliver’s poems…
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
~ Mary Oliver