I’m taking a sabbatical from this particular tumblr

but if you want to hear all about my Parisian blunderings and culture shock, check out:

http://unerousseaparis.tumblr.com/

!!

Paris, I’m a comin’

Night, After Sam Cooke

 .

In the twilight, all

things seem

like they should be

romantic—dimmed lights and

darkened skies,

wet pavement smell, and the soft

hem of my dress.  Alone

is amplified in the

dark, empty beds broadcasting

like neon signs: “Things

that are passed

seem better than

they were.”

 .

But somedays i can

hardly stand

the dark.  It seems

my world is as a stamp

floating in the ocean: i

am small

confined and perhaps sodden.

Perhaps the night

is larger than

even i ever

imagined.

Vrai Nom

Je nommerai dèsert ce château que tu fus,

Nuit cette voix, absence ton visage,

Et quand tu tomberas dans la terre stérile

Je nommerai néant l’éclair qui t’a porté.

.

Mourir est un pays que tu aimais.  Je viens

Mais éternellement par tes sombres chemins.

Je détruis ton désir, ta forme, ta mémoire,

Je suis ton ennemi qui n’aura de pitié.

.

Je te nommerai guerre et je prendrai

Sur toi les libertés de la guerre et j’aurai

Dans mes mains ton visage obscur et traversé,

Dans mon coeur ce pays qu’illumine l’orage.

—Yves Bonnefoy

.

True Name

I will name desert this castle which you were,

Night this voice, absence your face.

And when you fall into the sterile earth

I will name nothingness the lightning which brought you.

.

To die is a country which you loved.  I come

But eternally by your somber tracks.

I destroy your desire, your form, your memory

I am your enemy who will never have pity.

.

I will name you war and I will take

Off of you the liberties of war and I will have

In my hands your obscure and crossed face,

In my heart this country which illuminates the storm.

—My translation

I absolutely adore this:

i let you call me beautiful
because i know you mean beautiful
naked faced, unshowered, raspy
because you mean raw, pen in fist, screaming
because you mean lustful, razor-tongued

i let you call me beautiful
because you’ve traced the scoliosis snake of my spine
kissed the stretch marks under each breast
stroked the lines around my eyes

because these are my grandmother’s eyelids
my father’s lips
my great-great grandfather’s cheekbones

but i’ve fed this face sunburn and city air
calloused the eyes
and let the brows grow in

for the sake of the veins that river my wrists
for the sake of the prolapsed valve in my heart
for the sake of the scars marking my gall-bladder absent
for the sake of the rasp and rattle of my functioning lungs
for the sake of the pre-arthritic ache of my elbows
and ankles

for the sake of the life-line sectioning my palm
for the sake of the photographic pads of my fingertips
for the sake of the vulnerable dip at the base of my throat
for the sake of the muscles surfacing on my abdomen
for the sake of these arms that carry babies
and anthologies

for the sake of the leg hairs that sprout and are shaved
for the sake of the ass that refuses to shrink or be hidden
for the sake of the place that bleeds and accepts
bleeds and accepts

for the sake of the prominent ridge of my nose
for the sake of the strange convexity of my ribcage
for the sake of the single hair that insists on growing from my right ariola
for the sake of the dent where the mole was clipped from the back of my neck
for the sake of these inner thighs brushing
for the sake of these eyelashes that sometimes turn inward
for the sake of these hips preparing to spread into my grandmother’s skirt
for the sake of the beauty of the freckle on the first knuckle of my left little finger
call me beautiful

kidnap the word from perfume bottles and magazine covers
the way i stole back this body from the airbrushed delusions i knelt to in dormitory bathrooms

swear beauty means sex with the lights on
means caressing imperfections because this beauty is human
and human is flaw

standing naked before the full length
i smooth lotion into new cellulite
and old scars
close my eyes to picture my knees
my navel
my forehead
an architect reconstructing the house she grew up in

i believe in this body
like i believe in the beauty of plaid
the blonde swirl on the back of my six month old cousin’s head
the untouched drape of snow across my windowsill
the wedding ring on my grandmother’s widowed hand
the way beauty is the color of joy after suffering
the quick intake of breath before
yes!

the way fury is beautiful
and orgasm beautiful
the terror of headlights as you spin out on the ice
searing solitude beauty

call me beautiful
i’ll burn both of us
down
to bone.

- marty mc connell

(Source: luminousdetails)