Sprezzatura Images posted a photo:
I would like to unlock that door,
turn the rusty key
and hold each fallen one in my arms
but I cannot, I cannot.
I can only sit here on earth
at my place at the table.
from "Locked Doors" by Anne Sexton
Capitol Hill, Washington DC
Detail shot of this --> www.flickr.com/photos/tonianne/3507597780/
ladybird77 posted a photo:
La città non esiste
se non dove un albero dai capelli
neri scivola via, come una donna
annegata nel cielo caldo. Tace,
la città. Bolle la notte, con dieci
e una stella. Oh notte stellata,
stellata notte! È così che voglio
morire.
Si muove. Sono tutti quanti vivi.
Quando la luna rompe le catene
arancioni che la legano e spruzza
bambini dai suoi occhi, come un dio,
il vecchio serpente, senza esser visto
divora le stelle. Oh stellata notte,
notte stellata! È così che voglio
morire:
in questa strisciante bestia notturna,
risucchiata tutta dentro nel grande
drago, separata
dalla mia vita senza una bandiera,
senza pancia
né grido.
~ Anne Sexton ~
mél. posted a photo:
Now I am alone with the dead,
flying off bridges,
hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,
leaving a jet stream
of solitude
and yet I feel nothing,
though I fly and hurl,
my insides are empty
and my face is as blank as a wall.
(Anne Sexton)
Model: Martina
Photo and Post-production: Me
© All rights reserved. Use without permission is illegal.
d i a n e p o w e r s ( back on Monday ) posted a photo:
I'm very happy to share with you
goat of mendez's version of The Witch's Life .
A lovely surprise!
Thank you :)
d i a n e p o w e r s ( back on Monday ) posted a photo:
View On Black
"When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
window
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.
I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester's.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch's life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire."
- Anne Sexton
les brumes texture
Hyper Cleats posted a photo:
I am your dwarf.
I am the enemy within.
I am the boss of your dreams.
No. I am not the law of your mind,
the grandfather of watchfulness.
I am the law of your members,
the kindred of blackness and impulse.
See. Your hand shakes.
It is not palsy or booze.
It is your Doppelgänger
trying to get out.
-Anne Sexton
Tk Swayze posted a photo:
Textures Only ~ Competition #60
Original image ~ Bansidhe
Background- resident-angel.deviantart.com/art/Enchanted-135266443
Model- piratequeen-stock.deviantart.com/art/PQ-White-Gown-10-134...
Texture- www.flickr.com/photos/skeletalmess/3726214125/in/pool-tex...
Birds/Hair- www.obsidiandawn.com
The truth the dead know
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
-Anne Sexton
www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15298
plastic nico posted a photo:
i should note that while this series of photos were shot on film (35mm and 120), photoshop was used post processing to edit. these were taken for a school project which i never ended up using, but were used as a part of someone else's. meanwhile, some hang in the hallway of the art department. which is a bit, umm, awkward.
theogeo posted a photo:
Oh demon within,
I am afraid and seldom put my hand up
to my mouth and stitch it up
covering you, smothering you
from the public voyeury eyes
of my typewriter keys.
If I should pawn you,
what bullion would they give for you,
what pennies, swimming in their copper kisses
what bird on its way to perishing?
from "Demon" — Anne Sexton
+labyrinthine+ posted a photo:
And the dead are bored with the whole thing.
But you - you go ahead,
go on, go on back down
into the graveyard,
lie down where you think their faces are;
talk back to your old bad dreams.
lostocean posted a photo:
artisterin posted a photo:
From her series "Angels of the Love Affair" by Anne Sexton, No. 6 of the series "Angel of Beach Houses and Picnics"
Angel of beach houses and picnics, do you know solitaire?
Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myself to blame.
My blood buzzes like a hornet's nest. I sit in a kitchen chair
at a table set for one. The silverware is the same
and the glass and the sugar bowl. I hear my lungs fill and expel
as in an operation. But I have no one left to tell.
Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen
with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
Once I sunbathed in the buff, all brown and lean,
watching the toy sloops go by, holding court
for busloads of tourists. Once I called breakfast the sexiest
meal of the day. Once I invited arrest at the peace march in Washington.
Once I was young and bold and left hundreds of unmatched people out in the cold.
__________________________________
"Morning Sun" by Edward Hopper
d i a n e p o w e r s ( back on Monday ) posted a photo:
plastic nico posted a photo:
i should note that while this series of photos were shot with film (35mm and 120), photoshop was used post processing to edit. these were taken for a school project which i never ended up using, but were used as a part of someone else's. meanwhile, some hang in the hallway of the art department. which is a bit, umm, awkward.
plastic nico posted a photo:
And opening my eyes I am afraid of course
to look--this inward look that society scorns--
Still I search in these woods and find nothing worse
than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns
Red Fern posted a photo:
View On Black
I've been away for a while.
I still don't have time to post much, so here is more of the usual, but different.
I went back to the Hayward shoreline on the first day of summer for a test HDR from my new (used) camera.
Taken with a Sony Alpha 700, with Sigma 18-200mm lens.
G.H.L is George again posted a photo:
the Companion that dwells with in me
not good enough to be saved
nor bad enough to be lost
whisper something holy
before you pinch me
Julie K Arsenault posted a photo:
This is a little sketch to decide on a general design direction. It won't be used by Mr. Butler. The woman is Anne Sexton, the poet.
+labyrinthine+ posted a photo:
and my wounds
and undo them. Turn off the light and
then we are all over black paper.
bruce grant posted a photo:
Wait Mister. Which way is home?
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.
There are no sign posts in this room,
four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me
and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.
Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better;
remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November;
even the stars were strapped in the sky
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.
They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way,
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la,
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?
— Anne Sexton
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