Love does not begin and end as the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is growing up.

James Baldwin (via sivadirep)

(via restoried-deactivated20120304)

To Have Without Holding ›



To Have Without Holding 

by Marge Piercy 

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind 
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously, 
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can’t do it, you say it’s killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor’s button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.

(via serifedlife)

Vikas K. Menon :: Othertongue ›

Elephants sway in my mother’s English—
Pleased to meeting you she says
the multiple suffixes of her mother tongue
affix themselves to her meter: Okay-na!

In Malayalam, vowels sit like an egg 
on tongue, ant to aardvark. Her voice vies 
against drumkit English, 
hums with the rhythm of a mridangam. 

In English, the word Malayalam 
reads the same from left to right as 
right to left—a mirror of contentment. 
If only other words were so settled. 

My mother worries about the pale clusters 
on her last mammogram. 
Breast cancer is very popular now. 
 I say, not popular. 

Yes, she says, very popular.

Our other tongue is this silence. 

A hush, 

a blank face 
pressed against the glass. 

Tell me what’s the difference
between hope and waiting
because my heart doesn’t know
It constantly cuts itself on the glass of waiting
It constantly gets lost in the fog of hope

Anna Kamienska, Difference. trans. Grazyna Drabik and David Curzon (via yesyes)

mel mat: lately, i’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of waiting. i was having a conversation with a friend a while back and we somehow got to talking about images of our childhoods. i realized that a portrait of myself when i was 4 or 5 was me watching weird canadian variety shows, waiting for my parents to come home from work. i remember being really creeped out by the grim humor of smith and smith and then my parents coming home a bit past midnight. i remember being happy and relieved. and then we would go to sleep. 

i think about what that could have meant in terms of giving and receiving love, in terms of my role as a child and my parents’ roles as my nanayand tatay. i never really gave this memory much of a second thought until recently. i think about how this is mirrored in intimate relationships i’ve had in the past and how i’ve always covered it up as sacrifice and unconditional love. 

but if the reasons for my actions are coming from that place, is that much of an act of love for myself? much less, an act of love to others? 

needless to say, i’m slowly reaching for my all about love right about now.