Frankincense and Myrrh – Amy Lowell
My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings
Vibrate most readily to minor chords,
Searching and sad; my mind is stuffed with words
Which voice the passion and the ache of things:
Illusions beating with their baffled wings
Against the walls of circumstance, and hoards
Of torn desires, broken joys; records
Of all a bruised life’s maimed imaginings.
Now you are come! You tremble like a star
Poised where, behind earth’s rim, the sun has set.
Your voice has sung across my heart, but numb
And mute, I have no tones to answer. Far
Within I kneel before you, speechless yet,
And life ablaze with beauty, I am dumb.
Hera, by Francis Picabia, 1929:
I had to turn this post over to the poetry of Amy Lowell (one of my favorites) and the imagery of Francis Picabia, because I’m in a bit of a pissy mood. Well, maybe not pissy but moody and disconcerted. And anxious. And perturbed. I like the word “perturbed”. Eh, whatever. Maybe I’ll go shave my fucking head and give myself a nose piercing. Wouldn’t that be just splendid?