#sylvia plath never lies

[jandotie]

I want to touch everyone I meet. I want to pull away my human kin, my sisters, my brothers, from the phone and the television, and lay my hands on their face. On their chest, in their hands, and look at their eyes and wrap one arm around them while we stand in the sea and while we dig pits in the sand to bury the bees that come to the beach to die, so they can rest peacefully.

I want to go somewhere new and look across the stream at a man under a tree, and come down off the bridge and meet him there. I want to find somewhere to feel like my body is my very own vessel, like I'm finished just piloting a suit of armor while the burning in my nerves persists.

I want to meet with someone and talk with someone that will never give me a reason to fear him, I will never need to forgive any great transgression or wonder when he will scream at me again, tell me I am wrong and I have been bad. I don't trust anyone after what happened.

[sinligh]

I’m my mother’s favorite child; I’m full of sacrifices.

Hers and mine, and so many women before us Substituting security and affection with systematized delusions.

I'm falling down the rabbit hole, not because of curiosity, nor distraction. But because of something akin to reality call.

All the rage that belonged to my ancestors before me, spilt ink that I spend my days crying over

And i wonder if I’m the one dragging it along with me, or is it the emotion that keeps weighing me down.

I was raised to be paranoid mother said that will protect me when she’s not around..

Now, I’m just my mother’s child and I only know how to define versions of myself through her.

Always free, never enough.

A mother lullaby can blend into her child's bones, my mother used to lull me to sleep by humming

"I love you madly, enough to embrace you in my eyes and see the world through you as I cover you with my eyelids"

I’m my mother’s daughter, a wound that refuses to heal.

I poke at it every time I question how can i convince someone who spends days and nights writing and rewriting my future that i grew up to be blind to all that is prewritten ?

That l'm building a pathway for a little life In the shadows of dreams that are out of my reach

That silk sutures hold my organs in place and lies dressed in white sew me dreams that my brain didn't dare to conjure.

That i learned to dilute the amount of love I have for everyone in my life. I don't understand the whys and hows of it but I know that I'm at the stage of life where I don't love without guarding myself.

And I refuse to be punished for feeling anymore, even if it meant I'II only ever know rage.

Meaningless and absolute.

I lose my details as i go. Leaving tracks of my soul behind me.

I shed pieces that i don't know how to define, like a snake does its skin. The only difference is that a lot of my potential lay there underneath it.

I think i overlooked discipline in my journey to search for wildness and inspiration,

and it seems like the only consistent in my life is my desire to change.

I know empathy the way I know my father. Should be present; but isn't. And I'll never be my mother, doesn't matter how much of herself she sees in me.

•••

•Quotes:Elana Dykewomon/ Chelsea g. summers/Azra.T/Robert Goolrick/hayan charara/Hannah Green/Sylvia Plath/ Fariha Róisín

•original context: Sinligh

•Art reference:

1. Winged Goddesses. Psyche II - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 2.Winged Goddesses. Psyche Il - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 3.Winged Goddesses. Psyche Il - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 4. 2. Metamorphosis 2 by Giovanni Gestel. 5. My Crisis are Blessing by Andrea Galad. 6. Papillon |I" or "Woman in Wings", by Louis Icart. 7.Art by Will Kim. 8. Art by James Jean.

[wileys-russo]

What your favorite book? I need some new book recommendations!!!

I recently updated my Good Reads so here’s a whole ass list!

All boys aren’t blue - George Johnson

The girl with the dragon tattoo series - Stieg Larsson

All the light we cannot see - Anthony Doer

Little fires everywhere - Celeste Ng

Sharp Objects - Gillian Flynn

Dark Places - Gillian Flynn

Gone girl - Gillian Flynn

Conversations with friends - Sally Rooney

My government means to kill me - Rasheed Newson

The lesbianas guide to catholic school - Sonora Reyes

The vanishing half - Britt bennet

You need to know - Nicole Moriarty

Nine perfect strangers - Liane Moriarty

Truly, madly, guilty - Liane Moriarty

Apples never fall - Liane Moriarty

Big little lies - Liane Moriarty

The girl in the green dress - Jeni Haynes (MAJOR trigger warning)

The perks of being a wallflower - Stephen Chbosky

Women don’t owe you pretty - Florence Given

A slow fire burning - Paula Hawkins

The girl on the train - Paula Hawkins

I’m glad my mom died - Jennette Mccurdy

We were liars - E Lockhart

To the lighthouse - Virginia Wolfe

A room of one’s own - Virgina Wolfe

The good son - Jacquelyn Mitchard

The bell jar - Sylvia Plath

Watching women and girls - Danielle Pendar

A little life - Hanya Yanagihara (also a trigger warning!)

The prettiest horse in the glue factory- Corey White (also a trigger warning)

[mikelogan]

maybe i'll do them in the order of the results for funsies

synopses below the cut:

i am legend

Robert Neville is the last living man on Earth...but he is not alone. Every other man, woman, and child on Earth has become a vampire, and they are all hungry for Neville's blood. By day, he is the hunter, stalking the sleeping undead through the abandoned ruins of civilization. By night, he barricades himself in his home and prays for dawn. How long can one man survive in a world of vampires?

the black phone

Jack Finney is thirteen, alone, and in desperate trouble. For two years now, someone has been stalking the boys of Galesberg, stealing them away, never to be seen again. And now, Finney finds himself in danger of joining them: locked in a psychopath's basement, a place stained with the blood of half a dozen murdered children. With him in his subterranean cell is an antique phone, long since disconnected . . . but it rings at night anyway, with calls from the killer's previous victims. And they are dead set on making sure that what happened to them doesn't happen to Finney.

the seven husbands of evelyn hugo

In this entrancing novel "that speaks to the Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor in us all" (Kirkus Reviews), a legendary film actress reflects on her relentless rise to the top and the risks she took, the loves she lost, and the long-held secrets the public could never imagine. Aging and reclusive Hollywood movie icon Evelyn Hugo is finally ready to tell the truth about her glamorous and scandalous life. But when she chooses unknown magazine reporter Monique Grant for the job, no one is more astounded than Monique herself. Why her? Why now? Monique is not exactly on top of the world. Her husband has left her, and her professional life is going nowhere. Regardless of why Evelyn has selected her to write her biography, Monique is determined to use this opportunity to jumpstart her career. Summoned to Evelyn's luxurious apartment, Monique listens in fascination as the actress tells her story. From making her way to Los Angeles in the 1950s to her decision to leave show business in the '80s, and, of course, the seven husbands along the way, Evelyn unspools a tale of ruthless ambition, unexpected friendship, and a great forbidden love. Monique begins to feel a very real connection to the legendary star, but as Evelyn's story near its conclusion, it becomes clear that her life intersects with Monique's own in tragic and irreversible ways.

and then i woke up

In a world reeling from an unusual plague, monsters lurk in the streets while terrified survivors arm themselves and roam the countryside in packs. Or perhaps something very different is happening. When a disease affects how reality is perceived, it’s hard to be certain of anything… Spence is one of the “cured” living at the Ironside rehabilitation facility. Haunted by guilt, he refuses to face the changed world until a new inmate challenges him to help her find her old crew. But if he can’t tell the truth from the lies, how will he know if he has earned the redemption he dreams of? How will he know he hasn’t just made things worse?

exit west

In a country teetering on the brink of civil war, two young people meet--sensual, fiercely independent Nadia and gentle, restrained Saeed. They embark on a furtive love affair, and are soon cloistered in a premature intimacy by the unrest roiling their city. When it explodes, turning familiar streets into a patchwork of checkpoints and bomb blasts, they begin to hear whispers about doors--doors that can whisk people far away, if perilously and for a price. As the violence escalates, Nadia and Saeed decide that they no longer have a choice. Leaving their homeland and their old lives behind, they find a door and step through. . . . Exit West follows these remarkable characters as they emerge into an alien and uncertain future, struggling to hold on to each other, to their past, to the very sense of who they are. Profoundly intimate and powerfully inventive, it tells an unforgettable story of love, loyalty, and courage that is both completely of our time and for all time.

a certain hunger

Food critic Dorothy Daniels loves what she does. Discerning, meticulous, and very, very smart, Dorothy's clear mastery of the culinary arts make it likely that she could, on any given night, whip up a more inspired dish than any one of the chefs she writes about. Dorothy loves sex as much as she loves food, and while she has struggled to find a long-term partner that can keep up with her, she makes the best of her single life, frequently traveling from Manhattan to Italy for a taste of both. But there is something within Dorothy that's different from everyone else, and having suppressed it long enough, she starts to embrace what makes Dorothy uniquely, terrifyingly herself. Recounting her life from a seemingly idyllic farm-to-table childhood, the heights of her career, to the moment she plunges an ice pick into a man's neck on Fire Island, Dorothy Daniels show us what happens when a woman finally embraces her superiority.

just for the summer

Justin has a curse, and thanks to a Reddit thread, it's now all over the internet. Every woman he dates goes on to find their soul mate the second they break up. When a woman slides into his DMs with the same problem, they come up with a plan: They'll date each other and break up. Their curses will cancel each other’s out, and they’ll both go on to find the love of their lives. It’s a bonkers idea… and it just might work. Emma hadn't planned that her next assignment as a traveling nurse would be in Minnesota, but she and her best friend agree that dating Justin is too good of an opportunity to pass up, especially when they get to rent an adorable cottage on a private island on Lake Minnetonka. It's supposed to be a quick fling, just for the summer. But when Emma's toxic mother shows up and Justin has to assume guardianship of his three siblings, they're suddenly navigating a lot more than they expected–including catching real feelings for each other. What if this time Fate has actually brought the perfect pair together?

you like it darker

“You like it darker? Fine, so do I,” writes Stephen King in the afterword to this magnificent new collection of twelve stories that delve into the darker part of life—both metaphorical and literal. King has, for half a century, been a master of the form, and these stories, about fate, mortality, luck, and the folds in reality where anything can happen, are as rich and riveting as his novels, both weighty in theme and a huge pleasure to read. King writes to feel “the exhilaration of leaving ordinary day-to-day life behind,” and in You Like It Darker, readers will feel that exhilaration too, again and again. “Two Talented Bastids” explores the long-hidden secret of how the eponymous gentlemen got their skills. In “Danny Coughlin’s Bad Dream,” a brief and unprecedented psychic flash upends dozens of lives, Danny’s most catastrophically. In “Rattlesnakes,” a sequel to Cujo, a grieving widower travels to Florida for respite and instead receives an unexpected inheritance—with major strings attached. In “The Dreamers,” a taciturn Vietnam vet answers a job ad and learns that there are some corners of the universe best left unexplored. “The Answer Man” asks if prescience is good luck or bad and reminds us that a life marked by unbearable tragedy can still be meaningful.

a death in door county

Morgan Carter, owner of the Odds and Ends bookstore in Door County, Wisconsin, has a hobby. When she’s not tending the store, she’s hunting cryptids—creatures whose existence is rumored, but never proven to be real. It’s a hobby that cost her parents their lives, but one she’ll never give up on. So when a number of bodies turn up on the shores of Lake Michigan with injuries that look like bites from a giant unknown animal, police chief Jon Flanders turns to Morgan for help. A skeptic at heart, Morgan can’t turn down the opportunity to find proof of an entity whose existence she can’t definitively rule out. She and her beloved rescue dog, Newt, journey to the Death's Door strait to hunt for a homicidal monster in the lake—but if they’re not careful, they just might be its next victims.

disturbance

As the sun sets on a feverishly hot July evening, a young woman spies on her teenage neighbor, transfixed by what looks like an occult ritual intended to banish an ex-boyfriend. Alone in a new town and desperate to expel the claustrophobic memories of her own ex that have followed, the narrator decides to try to hex herself free from her past. She falls in with the neighbor and her witchy friend, exploring nascent supernatural powers as the boundaries of reality shift in and out of focus. But when the creaks and hums of her apartment escalate into something more violent, she realizes that she may have brought her boyfriend’s presence—whether psychological or paranormal—back to haunt her.

the bell jar

Esther Greenwood is brilliant, beautiful, enormously talented, and successful, but slowly going under—maybe for the last time. In her acclaimed and enduring masterwork, Sylvia Plath brilliantly draws the reader into Esther's breakdown with such intensity that her insanity becomes palpably real, even rational—as accessible an experience as going to the movies. A deep penetration into the darkest and most harrowing corners of the human psyche, The Bell Jar is an extraordinary accomplishment and a haunting American classic.

city on fire

New York City, 1976. Meet Regan and William Hamilton-Sweeney, estranged heirs to one of the city's great fortunes; Keith and Mercer, the men who, for better or worse, love them; Charlie and Samantha, two suburban teenagers seduced by downtown's punk scene; an obsessive magazine reporter, Richard, and his idealistic neighbor, Jenny, - and the detective trying to figure out what any of them have to do with a shooting in Central Park on New Year's Eve. The mystery, as it reverberates through families, friendships, and the corridors of power, will open up even the loneliest-seeming corners of the crowded city. And when the blackout of July 13, 1977, plunges this world into darkness, each of these lives with be changed forever.

[sylviaplathink]

via mstjohn813 on instagram

...

"I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes"

–Sylvia Plath, from the poem "Tulips", written 18 March 1961, in Ariel, 1965

...

TULIPS The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage —- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free —- The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.

[yourcoastalwallflower]

I’m kind of at a loss for words really. Sylvia Plath never truly got better. The shock treatments, the hope, the “getting out”. She just fell right back in step with it all. The dark and gloomy shadow that hangs over both of our shoulders. We think that if we run far enough away the cloud cannot chase us. But it can… and it does. No matter how many accomplishments, no matter how much I think that I have healed, it is always there. Lurking in the background like the awful rotting milk in the fridge. I know not to drink it. I know that it will taste bad. But sometimes the world tastes so bitter that I wonder if it would actually taste sweet. That maybe everyone else has lied to me.

But the fridge I can clean out. My mind I cannot. My mind is an endless chasm home to my most utter desires and thoughts. I know this and Sylvia did too. She was so talented.

People tell me that I am talented. Eccentric and odd… but talented. I put too much into everything…

Too much butter on bread,

Too much love into others,

Too much anger into my passions.

Maybe someday I will become too much for myself. Maybe then is when I’ll finally take a glass and pour myself the spoiled milk.

[bloodmaarked]

➸ reading list

just added:

the trader the owner the slave, james walvin

the dragons, the giant, the women: a memoir, wayétu moore

my lovely wife, samantha downing

vera wong's guide to dating a dead man, jesse q. sutanto

everyone in my family has killed someone, benjamin stevenson

the bell jar, sylvia plath

the manor of dreams, christina li

the kamogawa food detectives, hisashi kashiwai

[silmsmutweek]

Day 7: Ice

Daily prompts are never obligatory. How to use prompts.

Prompts/Suggestions

Taboo relationships

Dubcon & noncon

Amnesia, hypnosis

BDSM

Object of the Day

chain

Inspirations of the Day

“What have I eaten? Lies and smiles.”  —Sylvia Plath, “The Jailer”

Image prompt below the cut!

[always-coffee]

The Kind That Might Drown a Man

I have a piece of art that I love. It’s a siren, clearing drowning a man. It was painted by an artist who I considered a friend, who I spoke to nearly every day for three years. He used a rather artsy photo I had taken as a reference photo, with permission. (If we are mutuals, you may ask to see it.)

I was elated when he wanted to use my photo, to make art out of a piece of art (photos are art) I was proud of. I said yes, immediately. He was going to do a series of mythological characters, and I'd be the perfect siren.

When he showed me a photo of the finished piece and also when he posted it, I was happy. Then, he sent the original painting to me as a gift. I was over the moon. It felt cool. I felt cool. Seen, valued. It did something to combat an old wound of mine.

In the past, artists—people who I thought were friends, but who were only ever actually interested in getting into my pants (nooooope)—had asked to paint me. Reference photos were even sent. But the interest quickly fizzled when they realized that what was on offer was only friendship. It wasn't good enough, so those connections faded like sun-seared fog. No one is required to make art of someone, but when something flattering turns out to be wildly disappointing it is, at best, weird. At worst, it’s dehumanizing.

But back to the point: my friend made gorgeous art out of a photo I dearly loved of myself. It felt good, and I felt special. Fast-forward to years later, and I have severed that friendship. It turns out that, despite all the conversation and all the camaraderie and even the co-working we did together, he was a liar.

There were things he casually and purposefully lied about for no discernible reason. And when I discovered the truth, it gutted me. It felt worse than a romantic breakup in a lot of ways. I don’t like being lied to. At all. Tell me the awful truth, and I’ll deal with it. But purposefully, repeatedly, and knowingly abuse my trust? Absolutely unforgiveable.

I’ve spoken elsewhere on the internet about the details of the lies—the utter pointlessness of them. (Imagine, for instance, lying about who redid the landscaping in your backyard.) It was during the pandemic where we began talking in earnest, having entered each other’s orbit through a mutual friend in the art world. He seemed safe. We shared good news with each other, vented about the insanity of the world, swapped cute animal photos and funny memes. But the context of it all was impossibly and completely different than what I was told. The curated image I was given was a lie. Things were deliberately kept from me, information was twisted and distorted—and the kicker was that he lied to other people about me.

Again, for no reason. We’d done professional work together, and it was very public! And very fun at the time. But he apparently claimed we weren’t friends. The moment things started to feel wrong between us was easy to brush aside. Easy to explain away. Easy to understand. He was stressed, job hunting. I was dealing with myriad stresses of my own. No relationship is unmarred by life’s more than occasional weirdness. It’s easy to shrug things off. To ascribe to something banal, innocent.

Then, the truth came out. And honestly, I’m still sifting through the ramifications. The ways the deceit stuns me, even now, not just in the moment. How it felt peculiar to suddenly and wildly not know someone.

In the moment, I took the piece down. I put it away. I didn’t want to look at it. I couldn’t. It was too big of a reminder. It felt like mockery. Because what was it all about? What was the point of any of it? (These are questions that will never have answers.) I was—and still am—angry. Angry at the broken trust. The carelessness of it all. The cruelty too, so unnecessary in its articulations.

But what do I do with the art? Initially, I thought I’d burn it dramatically like Sylvia Plath and the letters. Or chuck it in the trash, as symbolic gesture of getting rid of it all, of closure. (Because there is none of that here, and that is fine. I do not want it. Nothing said could fix or mend or ease.) Getting rid of it, however, feels wrong.

It’s still beautiful. It’s still art. It’s still me.

But for now, it won’t hang where I can see it. It will not be a reminder of heartbreak and betrayal. It will not sit a monument to a lost friend, who was such a small, sad creature in the end. Because to act with such malice—and there was malice in the threads of it—is not the act of a kind or good heart. And I do not have space in my life for anything other than warmth and genuineness.

Someday—I don’t know when—I’ll put it out of the dark and either hang it up or give it away. Someday, maybe someone I love will want it, and I will want to give it to them. A moment of captured beauty, the kind that might drown a man—offered with love.

I’m glad I didn’t burn it, even as I am glad to have burnt that bridge.

[gothandghoul]

Medusa Unveiled: The Serpentine Enigma of Greek Mythology

Delve into the eerie depths of Greek mythology, where one creature reigns supreme - the dreaded Medusa. This monstrous being, capable of turning men to stone with a single glance, is renowned for her hair of twisted serpents, an enduring symbol of horror. But what lies behind this fearsome figure? Was Medusa indeed a monster or an unfortunate victim of something far more sinister? Join us as we uncover the bone-chilling truth about Medusa's snakes and unravel this ancient legend's enigma.

Once a breathtakingly beautiful woman, Medusa's appearance proved her downfall. Caught in the gaze of the sea god, Poseidon, who lusted after her as he did many others, Medusa found herself ensnared in a brief affair within the hallowed halls of Athena's temple. Incensed by this audacious act, Athena, unable to punish the more powerful and senior Poseidon, turned her wrath upon Medusa, transforming her into the monstrous entity she has come to be known as.

Her hair is undoubtedly the most striking of all Medusa's extraordinary attributes - a mass of squirming serpents. Legend has it that Athena reshaped her beautiful locks into venomous snakes as part of the punishment. Another tale suggests that the gods bestowed the gift of serpents upon her, augmenting her strength and rendering her virtually invincible in combat.

Behind her terrifying facade, Medusa's character is a complex tapestry. In some accounts, she is a gentle and nurturing creature, offering solace to lost souls in her dark lair. In others, she is a formidable warrior, capable of single-handedly overpowering entire armies. This duality, this contradiction, is what makes Medusa a figure of such intrigue and fascination.

Throughout history, the story of Medusa has been immortalized in art and literature. Italian artist Caravaggio's iconic painting depicts her as a monstrous figure with serpents erupting from her head. In the realm of literature, Medusa has been prominently featured in works like Ovid's "Metamorphoses," Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Medusa," and Sylvia Plath's "Medusa."

Medusa, beyond her mythical origins, has transcended time to become a symbol of female rage, power, and feminism. She embodies the untamed aspects of the female psyche, oppressed and vilified by patriarchal society. At present, feminist groups have embraced Medusa's image as a potent emblem of female empowerment and are using it to fuel their campaigns. This contemporary significance of Medusa's symbolism is a testament to the enduring power of her myth.

The story of Medusa is captivating and enigmatic, wrapped in a veil of intrigue. While the truth of her origins may forever remain a mystery, we can acknowledge and appreciate the profound symbolism she holds for us today. Whether she is seen as a monster, a victim, or a symbol of female strength, one thing is sure: the legend of Medusa will continue to ensnare the imaginations of generations to come - a tale of gothic horror that will never cease to thrill.

Our journey is far from over for those who crave the shadows and are drawn to the cryptic allure of ancient tales. Step deeper into the darkness and uncover more spine-chilling stories at GothandGhoul.com. Join us if you dare, and let the whispers of the past guide you through the labyrinth of gothic horror and mystery.

[averbaldumpingground]

Poetry Prompt: "I am not cruel, just truthful— / The eye of a little god, four cornered." (From Mirror by Sylvia Plath)

The worst of it had never been the lies. They stayed, of course, as mocking, vicious whispers.

The worst had been his face, when he had seen her. Temptation in his smile, the galaxies she knew he could have promised.

But it was honest, in a way, the words he could have breathed into her neck. The bruises that his fingers could have left her.

And just like lies, the truth, when left to fester, rots. It poisons all her memories anew.

So when the rain beats down, she sits and thinks.

How easy it had been to turn away.

[sixminutestoriesblog]

mushrooms

(part of) Mushrooms by Sylvia Plath

Yesterday, a friend and I had a friendly back and forth about whether mushrooms should be on the pizza we were ordering. I was very firmly in the 'no' boat while she was an enthusiastic supporter of fungus on food. Nicely enough, pizza places are more than capable of making a pizza with half yes and half no. When asked though, I honestly couldn't give her a solid answer on why I was opposed to mushrooms in my food. The ones I've had have very little taste and the texture doesn't bother me. Yet for some reason, my mind balks at the friendly little fellows when it comes to eating them. As an adult, thankfully, there's no need for me to eat what I don't want to but I do wonder how much of my aversion lies in the very terrible stories about poison my parents told me as a child to keep me from eating any of the wild mushrooms that popped up in our yard from time to time.

Let's talk superstition and folklore.

I suspect that most people in the West at least are familiar with the narrative that mushrooms growing in a ring are doorways to the realm of Fairy. How bad stepping through that doorway is depends on the region the story comes from but it very rarely ends happy for the person foolish enough to step inside. Consequences range from never being seen again, to coming back one hundred years later thinking you've only been gone a day, to coming back a year and a day later with mortal food now being your death sentence the moment you take your first bite to simply being forced to dance all night long, well past pain and exhaustion until the first crow of the morning rooster. To be fair, some folklore promised the exact opposite if you stepped into a 'fairy ring', offering wealth, health and good luck (sounds like Fae propaganda if you ask me ;)

Mushrooms are said to grow where a murder victim lies. Or sometimes, where a murder has walked. Certain mushrooms in Russia were believed to hold the souls of the dead.

Appalachian lore says that only safe time to gather mushrooms is under the light of the full moon - unless they're growing in an apple orchard while the trees are still in bloom and then go nuts.

Mushrooms are believed to be the saddles used by witches or elves.

There's a mushroom called 'Troll's butter' in Scandinavia that's said to hint at the presence of nearby trolls or their cats. In nearby countries, its referred to as 'witches butter' or 'witches spit' and is said to be used to sour milk. (to be fair, putting slime in someone's milk would spoil it pretty thoroughly).

There are at least two mushroom creation stories, one where Saint Peter spits out a sheaf of rye he was eating and one where the Lithuanian god of the underworld reaches his fingers up through the soil - both ending with the idea that mushrooms are gifts so the poor will always have food.

Using silver when cooking mushrooms, either adding a silver coin to the water or stirring it with a silver spoon, is suppose to reveal whether the mushroom is poisonous or not (hint: the silver will turn black. Double hint: don't do this at home)

The poisonous toadstool (your typical red capped white mushroom with white dots) is considered good luck in Germany, on par with four leaf clover.

In China and Japan mushrooms were associated with long life and health.

What about you? What mushroom stories have you heard growing in the cool soil deep in the night?

[angel13xo]

“I am, I am, I am. ” - Sylvia Plath

When I was 6 I learnt the alphabet,

When I was 9 I learnt how to divide,

When I was 10 I wrote my first story,

I had to read aloud with a dry

mouth and shaking hands. Hard to

forget: how I could hardly take a breath.

When I was a teen I didn’t live my life,

too busy feeling hopeless in my room,

Clueless, but now I’m 17 soon.

Although I’ve learned these many “clever” things,

It all feels pointless.What if I’m nothing:

a lonely vase? Empty and bare.

“a2 + b2 = c2”

I’ve said it a thousand times over

But who listens to an empty vase?

The vase in the corner who gapes and gawks

at the flamboyant parties that

go … on … on … on … forever and more.

I’ve never been fond of snow or sun.

Or preppy parties where I know no one.

Grey, dwindling flowers aren’t for me either.

Maybe I over analyse too much,

Or maybe not enough.

My youthful petals chip away from me,

to unveil my stripped self and stem.

My bluebell stock screeches the harsh truth

Of how I am nothing but a

lazy

lying

boring

greasy

teenage

bitch.

Step into my strange opera of life.

A never ending comedy of lies.

A deceitful story about the;

sandy summertime of Sicily,

the vast history of Tripoli

and my new friend The Yeti.

I’m a liar.

But lying gets me a gold star,

every single time.

But I’m not 10 anymore,

where a gold star means I’ve conquered the world.

Spring enters the stage while winter leaves.

The crowd cheers and hoots of joy.

A sudden sunrise shines upon the vase.

The petals are not waning anymore.

Instead, new petals grace the once bare bones,

with all new colours, shapes and sizes.

The Easter Bunny hops closer to me.

The Bunny’s basket isn’t filled with sweets,

instead, it’s nothing but rotten treats.

But winter taught me how to persist.

The seasons bloom and die but so do I.

As much as I can be a nasty

greedy

moody

annoying

vulgar

teen,

I can also be that magical

talented

beautiful

introverted

soulful

woman.

I know when I’m 17 or older,

I’ll still be that petunia of pampered

polished

messes.

That I've always been.

The petals of me will bloom and grow,

by day, by night and through snow.

I’m no longer a belittled bluebell.

I’ve learnt the many lessons of this life,

My favourite thing I’ve learnt is:

Who I Am.

[april-is]

April 25, 2023: Still Life with Nursing Bra, Keetje Kuipers

Still Life with Nursing Bra Keetje Kuipers

Fall open, unfold me. Hook and eye undone with one hand, fingers that know their way now in the dark. You contain me: underwire circling my breasts in half-bangle like the copper bracelets lemniscating wrists of women who’ve never worn bras, never held back their multitudes. You of the hidden crab-apple bruise yellowing on my chest. You of her ecstasy, eyes rolled back in her head, hands in her sweat- damp hair. You: milk that rivers down my skin, shimmering of hunger, the want of a wet mouth. Nursing bra—black, nude, electric orange and lace-trimmed, tucked in the back of the drawer or hung dangling from a doorknob—I once fumbled with you, stale of the dentist’s lobby cut by a thin mewling that made us all shiver, the waiting room’s terrified ripple as I struggled with the clasp that kept me from spilling open. Instead, the leaking through, a sticky flower blooming down my chest, until I wrenched you free, flapping and fearless, one wing taking flight from my breast.

--

More like this: » Only she who has breast-fed, Vera Pavlova » The Cambridge Afternoon Was Gray, Alicia Ostriker » After the First Child, the Second, Mary Austin Speaker » Morning Song, Sylvia Plath » First Night, D. Nurkse » When Your Small Form Tumbled into Me, Tracy K. Smith

Today in: 

2022: A Small-Sized Mystery, Jane Hirshfield 2021: Prayer for My Unborn Niece or Nephew, Ross Gay 2020: Vigil, Phillis Levin 2019: Nights in the Neighborhood, Linda Gregg 2018: I Dreamed Again, Anne Michaels 2017: wishes for sons, Lucille Clifton 2016: Told You So, Keetje Kuipers 2015: Accident, Mass. Ave., Jill McDonough 2014: This Hour and What Is Dead, Li-Young Lee 2013: To Myself, Franz Wright 2012: Manet’s Olympia, Margaret Atwood 2011: Three Rivers, Alpay Ulku 2010: Ode to Hangover, Dean Young 2009: We become new, Marge Piercy 2008: The Only Animal, Franz Wright 2007: Dream Song 385, John Berryman 2006: The Quiet World, Jeffrey McDaniel 2005: Man and Wife, Robert Lowell

[sassmar]

not quite an ask, but - rec me some poetry!! ❤️

omg you !!!! you asked the ultimate keep-me-up-all-night-thinking question why would you do this. why. i love you so much.

so i guess i should skip (?) probably (?) the ppl that tumblr already seems to be deeply familiar with e.g. richard siken, ocean vuong, franny choi, hanif abdurraqib, ada limon all coming to mind here, though i def love sooo much of what i've read by them & they deserve their dues!

and then idk if i should also skip (?) maybe (?) some of the really obvious super-famous suspects like sylvia plath, anne sexton, t.s. eliot, e.e. cummings, w.b. yeats, frank o'hara, uh. whose poetry i also love. but like? idk probably these are not deep cuts either but i am extremely fond of them so?

mmm okay so that leaves the small intersection of like .... poetry i've actually read (x) poets i don't see floating around tumblr all the time anyway (x) poets still alive or only fairly recently dead and thus not as stupidly famous as shakespeare or neruda?? (spoiler they're still very famous as far as poets are concerned i'm not like. that deep.)

so anyway i think that little list of poets might include: jericho brown (just finally read the tradition, absolutely gorgeous), natasha trethewey, edward hirsch, louise gluck, dianne seuss (recently read frank: sonnets - lovely!), tracy k smith, marie howe, sharon olds, eavan boland, seamus heaney. oh deep cut, i just discovered a young poet named marcus scott williams with some cool stuff! emily skaja and kathryn merwin might be younger/lesser known/deeper cuts too? gosh i know there are so many deserving others and also cool lesser known poets i'm not listing but my mind is like. yknow. whoooooosh.

oh also for easier reading etc here are some links to a few beloved poems by ppl from all these various lists in no logical order whatsoever:

"dear dr. frankenstein" by jericho brown

"ave maria" by frank o'hara (does not get enough love here on tumblr?? all i ever see is "having a coke with you" which don't get me wrong is so so lovely but why do i never see this one on the dash?? my absolute o'hara fave)

"[intimacy unhinged, unpaddocked me]" by diane seuss

"white lies" by natasha trethewey

"for the sleepwalkers" by edward hirsch

"death, the last visit" by marie howe

"that the science of cartography is limited" by eavan boland (some of y'all will def recognize this uh !! i know !! for reasons!)

"since feeling is first" by e.e. cummings

"perihelion: a history of touch" by franny choi

"digging" by seamus heaney

"young" by anne sexton

<3

[mashedstickykeys]

Who?

“I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am” -Sylvia Plath

Our whole lives we spend immense amounts of time trying to discover who we are, what lies beneath the image we show others, but is this a fulfilling ambition?

Does this goal ever get conquered? Has anyone ever been able to know exactly what they want and who they are through each experience? Unchanging? Stubborn.

Everyday is a new beginning, we hear this so often but do we understand what it truly represents? New beginnings require destruction and birth, are these things we can achieve in sleep? Do we destroy every atom of yesterday in 8 hours? Do we wake up a child who’s captivated by every detail we can hold? No, we don’t.

Isn’t the beauty of life not knowing what or even who tomorrow brings? If we begin again and again and again can there ever even be an end? 

I want to place my head on my pillow and burn down buildings and islands that hold my history, all the files and packages that reside within me, taking up too much space and weighing me down, i want to destroy who i was in every single yesterday, never being able to look back and reminisce, only forward, to tomorrow when i wake up new and bright, not anchored by textbooks or notes, just sailing. Beginning. Again.

I know exactly who I am and it's not what I did but what I do, what I grow from, feel, see, hear, breathe. I’m ever changing, movable, and understanding. I will always be a stranger to myself but i fall deeply and madly in love each day with who i become, repeating this cycle forever i will continue to live on in millions of ways unbeknownst to me as i am now but i welcome anyone who decides to cross through my mirror and puppet me for the day for ill learn a little more about who to become tomorrow.