There is morning inside you
waiting to burst open into light.
…my Lolita remarked: “You know, what’s so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own”; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did not know a thing about my darling’s mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile cliches, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gate - dim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely forbidden to me, in my polluted rags and miserable convulsions…
Sometimes I am bewildered
By all this foolish energy
Miles from people.
I envy those
Who live upriver
At the quiet source.
Here we are forever
The incoming roar
Of life and the tides
That carry death out
Dermot Healy, from “Prayer,” The Ballyconnell Colours (Gallery Press, 1992)
Sunset, springtime, the blue of the sea, the stars in the sky; all the things that entrance us exert their magic only in the orbit of woman.
I’d emerge from my personal darkness for a second and then plunge into it again as though nothing had happened. I felt at ease in my black thoughts, safe from my torments, out of reach of troublesome questions, alone inside my rage, which was digging channels in my veins and merging with the fibers of my being.
Love makes your soul crawl from its hiding place.
Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace.
And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in.
It occurred to me that I was unhappy. And it didn’t feel so very terrible. No urgency, nothing. I could slip out of my life on a slow wave like this—it didn’t matter. I don’t have to be happy. All I have to do is hold on to something and wait.
Memory changes as a person matures.
What had led me on my ghost-cruise around the lips and loins of words was basically this: the substance of recollection in my thighs, sharp response of flesh. Not dead fathers in the vague unconscious but lives in the cunt, where pasts resurrect and spring surprises.
Solitary people, these book lovers. I think it’s swell that there are people you don’t have to worry about when you don’t see them for a long time, you don’t have to wonder what they do, how they’re getting along with themselves. You just know that they’re all right, and probably doing something they like.
Please tell me a story about a girl who gets away.”
I would, even if I had to adapt one, even if I had to make one up just for her. “Gets away from what, though?”
"From her fairy godmother. From the happy ending that isn’t really happy at all. Please have her get out and run off of the page altogether, to somewhere secret where words like ‘happy’ and ‘good’ will never find her."
"You don’t want her to be happy and good?"
"I’m not sure what’s really meant by happy and good. I would like her to be free. Now. Please begin.”
Nothing really belongs to us. We put our hands lightly / around / the necks of unbroken flowers.