Everything Is Just Sunshine And Butterflies For This Baby

“I tell you what I see—the landscape of the spirit requires a lung, but no tongue. I hold you few I love, till my heart is red as February and purple as March.”

— Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Mrs. Holland written c. February 1856

FLEABAG "1.06"

i love when words fit right. seize was always supposed to be that word, and so was jester. tuesday isn't quite right but thursday should be thursday, that's a good word for it. daisy has the perfect shape to it, almost like you're laughing when you say it; and tulip is correct most of the time. while keynote is fun to say, it's super wrong - i think they have to change the label for that one. but fox is spot-on.

most words are just, like, good enough, even if what they are describing is lovely. the night sky is a fine term for it but it isn't perfect the way november is the correct term for that month.

it's not just in english because in spanish the phrase eso si que es is correct, it should be that. sometimes other languages are also better than the english words, like how blue is sloped too far downwards but azul is perfect and hangs in the air like glitter. while butterfly is sweet, i think probably papillion is more correct, although for some butterflies féileacán is much better. year is fine but bliain is better. sometimes multiple languages got it right though, like how jueves and Πέμπτη are also the right names for thursday. maybe we as a species are just really good at naming thursdays.

and if we were really bored and had a moment and a picnic to split we could all sit down for a moment and sort out all the words that exist and find all the perfect words in every language. i would show you that while i like the word tree (it makes you smile to say it), i think arbor is correct. you could teach me from your language what words fit the right way, and that would be very exciting (exciting is not correct, it's just fine).

i think probably this is what was happening at the tower of babel, before the languages all got shifted across the world and smudged by the hand of god. by the way, hand isn't quite right, but i do like that the word god is only 3 letters, and that it is shaped like it is reflecting into itself, and that it kind of makes your mouth move into an echoing chapel when you cluck it. but the word god could also fit really well with a coathanger, and i can't explain that. i think donut has (weirdly) the same shape as a toothbrush, but we really got bagel right and i am really grateful for that.

grateful is close, but not like thunder. hopefully one day i am going to figure out how to shape the way i love my friends into a little ceramic (ceramic is very good, almost perfect) pot and when they hold it they can feel the weight of my care for them. they can put a plant in there. maybe a daisy.

“There’s a lot of pressure for people to make a very polished poem, to keep shining and shining it, and say here, it’s a perfect gem. There are many beautiful poems like that. A lot of Mary Ruefle’s poems are like that. But there’s also beauty to me in what I perceive as excess. One way I define poetry is as a blueprint to a feeling, so every line matters, even if it feels inconsequential or tangential. Even those tangents matter. So revision is really hard for me as a poet. Certain poems call to be revised because they want to look like that gem. Other poems are like, accept me as I am. Accept this mess.”

— Devin Kelly, from “On allowing yourself to be surprised”, from a conversation with Denise S. Robbins, published December 21, 2022 (via kitchen-light)

i log in. i reblog quotes and poems and posts that slice me in half or whatever. i log out

I am not a poet  I don’t know how to be one  How to wrap all my thoughts in a poem

I don’t know how to wrap my anger  In a bouquet of pretty flowers  Presentable to the world  In a way that doesn’t scare you I can only offer a scribble of curses  Paper torn in shreds 

I don't know how to wrap my sadness  In a lyrical song  Words so beautiful they make you weep I can only offer my tears Leaking out, droplets creating smudges on paper  Ink forming illegible words 

I don’t know how to wrap my love  In a melody that flows  Comprehensible  Clear  A song that loops itself in your head  I can only offer my heart  On display, beating a terrified thrum

I am not a poet  I don’t know how to be one  How to show myself to the world  In a way that does not frighten me to the core 

A group of rough looking boys walked past me today and all I heard of their conversation was “he’s got that anxiety disorder bro so I went with him so he’d be more comfortable” and it made me realise the world isn’t all that bad

apple blossomed trees / roots with the birds

“A cage went in search of a bird.”

— Franz Kafka