worry about the command
in the suggestion.
worry about smiles, and those men
whose business is business.
there are joys and enigmas
of an evening alone
there are always the simple events
of your life
that you might try to convert
the personal goes the way of
belief. What seemed so deep
begins to seem naive, something
that could be trusted
because we hadn’t read Plato
or held two contradictory ideas
or women in the same day.
Love, then, becomes an old movie.
Loss seems so common
it belongs to the air,
to breath itself, anyone’s.
We’re left with style, a particular
way of standing and saying,
the idiosyncratic look
at the frown which means nothing
until we say it does. Years later,
long after we believed it peculiar
to ourselves, we return to love.
We return to everything
strange, inchoate, like living
with someone, like living alone,
settling for the partial, the almost
satisfactory sense of it.” —Stephen Dunn, from “Essay on the Personal” (via Whiskey River)
Embarrassed and almost guilty because sometimes I feel that my mourning is merely a susceptibility to emotion.
But all my life haven’t I been just that: moved?” —Roland Barthes, Mourning Diary (via modellesbians)