martina

“I exist only in the soles of my feet and in the tired muscles of my thighs. We have been walking for hours it seems. But where? I cannot remember.”
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves

“In Summation
A poem by Taylor Swift

At this hearing
I stand before my fellow members of the Tortured Poets Department
With a summary of my findings
A debrief, a detailed rewinding
For the purpose of warning
For the sake of reminding

As you might all unfortunately recall
I had been struck with a case of a restricted humanity
Which explains my plea here today of temporary i n s a n i t y

You see, the pendulum swings
Oh, the chaos it brings
Leads the caged beast to do the most curious things

Lovers spend years denying what’s ill fated
Resentment rotting away
galaxies we created

Stars placed and glued
meticulously by hand
next to the ceiling fan

Tried wishing on comets.
Tried dimming the shine.
Tried to orbit his planet.
Some stars never align.

And in one conversation, I tore down the whole sky

Spring sprung forth with dazzling freedom hues
Then a crash from the skylight bursting through
Something old, someone hallowed, who told me he could be brand new

And so I was out of the oven
and into the microwave
Out of the slammer and into a tidal wave
How gallant to save the empress from her gilded tower
Swinging a sword he could barely lift
But loneliness struck at that fateful hour
Low hanging fruit on his wine stained lips

He never even scratched the surface of me.

None of them did.

“In summation, it was not a love affair!”
I screamed while bringing my fists to my coffee ringed desk
It was a mutual manic phase.
It was self harm.
It was house and then cardiac arrest.

A smirk creeps onto this poet’s face
Because it’s the worst men that I write best.

And so I enter into evidence
My tarnished coat of arms
My muses, acquired like bruises
My talismans and charms
The tick, tick, tick of love bombs
My veins of pitch black ink

All’s fair in love and poetry
Sincerely,
The Chairman
of The Tortured Poets Department”
― Taylor Swift

“What are you thinking of, Katharine?" he asked suspiciously, noticing her tone of dreaminess and the inapt words.

"I was thinking of you--yes, I swear it. Always of you, but you take such strange shapes in my mind. You've destroyed my loneliness. Am I to tell you how I see you? No, tell me--tell me from the beginning."

Beginning with spasmodic words, he went on to speak more and more fluently, more and more passionately, feeling her leaning towards him, listening with wonder like a child, with gratitude like a woman. She interrupted him gravely now and then.

"But it was foolish to stand outside and look at the windows. Suppose William hadn't seen you. Would you have gone to bed?"

He capped her reproof with wonderment that a woman of her age could have stood in Kingsway looking at the traffic until she forgot.

"But it was then I first knew I loved you!" she exclaimed.

"Tell me from the beginning," he begged her.

"No, I'm a person who can't tell things," she pleaded. "I shall say something ridiculous--something about flames--fires. No, I can't tell you."

But he persuaded her into a broken statement, beautiful to him, charged with extreme excitement as she spoke of the dark red fire, and the smoke twined round it, making him feel that he had stepped over the threshold into the faintly lit vastness of another mind, stirring with shapes, so large, so dim, unveiling themselves only in flashes, and moving away again into the darkness, engulfed by it.”
― Virginia Woolf, Night and Day

“Life, how I have dreaded you," said Rhoda, "oh, human beings, how I have hated you! How you have nudged, how you have interrupted, how hideous you have looked in Oxford Street, how squalid sitting opposite each other staring in the Tube! Now as I climb this mountain, from the top of which I shall see Africa, my mind is printed with brown-paper parcels and your faces. I have been stained by you and corrupted. You smelt so unpleasant, too, lining up outside doors to buy tickets. All were dressed in indeterminate shades of grey and brown, never even a blue feather pinned to a hat. None had the courage to be one thing rather than another. What dissolution of the soul you demanded in order to get through one day, what lies, bowings, scrapings, fluency and servility! How you changed me to one spot, one hour, one chair, and sat yourselves down opposite! How you snatched from me the white spaces that lie between hour and hour and rolled them into dirty pellets and tossed them into wastepaper baskets with your greasy paws. Yet those were my life.”
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves