Archive for women writers

Song for a red nightgown…

Posted in Anne Sexton with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 13, 2015 by Mj Rains

No. Not really red,
but the color of a rose when it bleeds.
It’s a lost flamingo,
called somewhere Schiaparelli Pink
but not meaning pink, but blood and
those candy store cinnamon hearts.
It moves like capes in the unflawed
villages of Spain. Meaning a fire
layer and underneath, like a petal,
a sheath of pink, clean as a stone.

So I mean a nightgown of two colors
and of two layers that float from
the shoulders across every zone.
For years the moth has longed for them
but these colors are bound by silence
and animals, half hidden but browsing.
One could think of feathers and
not know it at all. One could
think of whores and not imagine
the way of a swan. One could
imagine the cloth of a bee and
touch it’s hair and come close.

The bed is ravaged by such
sweet sights. The girl is.
The girl drifts up out of
her nightgown and its color.
Her wings are fastened onto
her shoulders like bandages.
The butterfly owns her now.
It covers her and her wounds.
She is not terrified of
begonias or telegrams but
surely this nightgown girl,
this awesome flyer, has not seen
how the moon floats through her
and in between.

~Ann Sexton

IMG_1850

The Black Art

Posted in Poetry at large with tags , , , , , , , , on December 16, 2014 by Mj Rains

/home/wpcom/public_html/wp-content/blogs.dir/29a/4787654/files/2014/12/img_1704.jpg

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portals!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A write is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, em>precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

Anne Sexton

Clarice Lispector…writer of beauty…

Posted in Celestial Objects, Writers with tags , , , , , , , on November 30, 2014 by Mj Rains

IMG_1654.JPG

Clarice Lispector, 1922-1977, was a Brazilian writer, described as the most important Jewish writer since Franz Kafka. She wrote novels and short stories and was also a part-time beauty columnist with a penchant for Chanel suits. Originally born in what is now the Ukraine, her family fled the Russian civil war and emigrated to Brazil. She studied law and eventually married a Brazilian diplomat.

Her novels include Near to the Wild Heart and The Passion According to G.H.

The curve of joy…

Posted in Writers with tags , , , , , , , on November 29, 2014 by Mj Rains

IMG_1653.JPG

The unendurable is the beginning of the curve of joy.
Our bones ache only while the flesh is on them.

– Djuna Barnes, Nightwood
Image: Djuna Barnes

Remembering Theresa…

Posted in Theresa Duncan with tags , , , , , , , , on October 26, 2014 by Mj Rains

theresa 2

Happy Birthday Tracy… wherever you are…

Theresa Duncan Oct. 26, 1966 ~ July 10, 2007

theresa 1

She’s the original Wit of the Staircase, the inspiration for my blog way back when, and lover of Halloween, a love we share…

theresa 3

“Well-behaved women seldom make history.”
~Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

All images from Mary Duncan’s blog Memories of Theresa

%d bloggers like this: