Through the lens of a broken heart
the sky is muted
the air flavored with mud
Through the lens of a broken heart
my face feels weighted down
my feet heavy as clay
Through the lens of a broken heart
I only speak when spoken to
My face has forgotten how to smile
Through the lens of a broken heart
The only thing that beckons
is the silence of a shuttered room.
The park is filled with night and fog,
The veils are drawn about the world,
The drowsy lights along the paths
Are dim and pearled.
Gold and gleaming the empty streets,
gold and gleaming the misty lake,
The mirrored lights like sunken swords,
Glimmer and shake.
Oh, is it not enought to be
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I
Should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
O, Beauty are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love,
With youth, a singing voice and eyes
To take earth’s wonder with surprise?
Why have I put off my pride,
Why am I unsatisfied,–
I for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light,–
I, for whom all beauty burns
Like incense in a million urns?
O, Beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love?
-Sara Teasdale
Several years back my mom and I went on a wonderful trip to the south. We explored Savannah and Charleston and made a special detour to explore the charming little town of Beaufort, South Carolina, just because one of my very favorite authors had written so much about his home town. I have a special love for southern writing and I consider Pat Conroy one of the best. We were thrilled to see the Outer Banks that he so lovingly wrote about and the trip is a very fond memory…so I was sad to read that he had died last Friday. Another truly fine author gone. RIP Pat Conroy and thank you.
“Every day I make some gesture, think or feel something through the influence of one or another of these friends. When I plant bulbs I pat the earth around each one and realize suddenly that that is what my mother did; I never cook carrots without remembering thyme, a little onion, and sugar as Celine used to do, or make my bed without a vivid recalling of Grace Dudley’s insistence on hospital corners as we stretched a sheet taut between us; when I take my father’s cane on a walk with my dog I find myself striding along as briskly as he did; on the rare occasions when I drink a martini the image wells up of the square cut-glass bottle with buffalo grass in it from which Kot poured gin for James Stephens and me; I see the reds among the fresh greens of spring with Quig’s eyes. These are not conscious evocations nor very important in themselves, but it is their interweaving through every day that explains what influence truly is. We become what we have loved.”
May Sarton, A World of Light-Portraits and Celebrations
To Kill a Mockingbird is one of the very best books ever written…and touched me profoundly in both my childhood and my adult life. It’s been a touchstone for me and for so many millions of others. Those of us who write only dream of creating a book so beautiful. RIP Harper Lee….and thank you.
Vintage French Childrens Book Fables de La Fontaine / Rare 1982 Edition Illustrated by Romain Simon / Gautier Languereau Publishers
Penelope's Musings 