blamespresso:

sweaterdirection:

n-iallhorans:frontiercity:asabuttfield:

to make a creature: richard siken

i’ve reblogged this at least twice, i think. i’ll reblog it again. i love it.

excuse me while i requote all of the things in my next few posts.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Lady Lazarus / Sylvia Plath /

fleurishes:

atrialflutters:

Sylvia Plath reading “Lady Lazarus”

<3 <3

This is actually perfect.

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can’t see.

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

The need of my care,

‘Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me. 

-Maya Angelou

neil-gaiman:

A reply to my poem, and really beautiful:

therealkatiewest:

If you think seeing a naked woman
is a disappointment
because what you had imagined was so much
better than what was there, may I suggest looking at it in a new way.

Maybe instead of pondering
the tentacles and mouths beneath
her clothes,
you could ponder the bright things
that lurk beneath her skin. You can look
at her glistening pussy lips and wonder,
my god,
             what rivers
must run through her body to create
that overflow of wetness. You can look at her breasts,
dark and sensitive and soft, feeling
in your hands like the greatest of treasures, and come
up with multiple theories as to what lies
beneath them that could possibly make them mould
so perfectly
to your touch and respond so enthusiastically
to your tongue.

Her body is so much more
miraculous and dream-worthy and mysterious
when naked than when she wears clothes.

The mystery has never been what might be
found under her clothes; that is just something of hers
she lets
            you enjoy
because she thinks you to be clever. The mystery
is in imagining what writhes under her skin that makes her body move the way it does;
what worlds are inside her that create a gravitational pull so unyielding;
what makes her body a fertile ground, enough to grow the tenderness
of her gaze, the audacity of her courage, and the ferocity of her tongue.

The mystery has always been
how you plan on maintaining your cleverness
for just long enough
to convince her to let you stay
with her, there,
                        and naked, too, beside her.

(This is a response to a (much better) poem by Neil Gaiman about nudity. The poem is a collaboration with artist Olivia De Berardinis and you can buy a poster of it here. The art is beautiful, and so is the poem, especially if you read it out loud, which I suggest you do. It’s just that, I have never in my life been disappointed when a woman has taken off her clothes for me. I could never be disappointed by nakedness because I know the basics of what to expect, but I will never know what’s underneath the nakedness that makes the person suddenly more mysterious, more miraculous, more dream-worthy, more interesting, more perfect as soon as they’re standing naked in front of me.)

Funeral Blues, W.H. Auden

– Sylvia Plath (Mad Girl’s Love Song)

toastaubeurre:

— Richard Siken