Come salvarsi la vita

Erica Jong

1. Eliminare i sensi di colpa.
2. Non fare dalla sofferenza un culto.
3. Vivere nel presente (o almeno nell'immediato futuro).
4. Fare sempre le cose di cui si ha più paura; il coraggio è una cosa che s'impara a gustare col tempo, come il caviale.
5. Fidarsi della gioia.
6. Se il malocchio ti fissa, guarda da un'altra parte.
7. Prepararsi ad avere ottantasette anni.

     Erica Jong, Come salvarsi la vita

 

la mia concavità inutilmente affamata e più vuota ogni volta che era piena

Bestia,corpo,libro

Ero stufa d’esser donna,
stufa del dolore,
dell’irrilevante dettaglio del sesso,
la mia concavità
inutilmente affamata
e più vuota ogni volta che era piena,
e riempita infine
del suo stesso vuoto,
cercando il giardino della solitudine
anziché gli uomini.
Il letto bianco
nel verde giardino –
Desideravo
dormire sola
così come altri
desiderano un amore.
Persino quando sei arrivato tu
ho cercato di mandarti
via con la mia tristezza,
le mie ciniche seduzioni,
ed il mio trucco di
trasformare lo schiavo
in padrone.
E tutto perché
tu mi facevi
dolere le punte delle dita,
ed incrociare gli occhi
in una passione
che non sapeva nemmeno il proprio nome.
Orso, bestia, amante
del libro del mio corpo,
mi hai voltato le pagine
e scoperto
ciò che restava
da scrivere
sull’altro lato.
Ed ora
sono bianca
per te,
una tabula rasa
pronta ad esser stampata
con lettere
di una lingua sconosciuta
dalla gran rotativa
del nostro amore.

(Erica Jong)

We spoke of men as often as of poems

Post coitum tristesse, part 2   

(Anne Sexton)

I

"We spoke of men

as often as of poems.

We tried to legislate away

the need for love –

that backseat fuck

& death caressing you."

 – Erica Jong

ah, this side of paradise!

there's no comfort in the wise,

no comfort at all. I roll it up how I was

taught to, half cancer half plant,

wait around for the next one.

ever feel like a hooker? I'd asked her

once, waiting on a corner, fishing for a lighter.

no, but I feel like Sylvia Plath.

I had responded: can I be Anne Sexton?

it seemed right, that is, my severe rejection of emotions via denial, via wanting to tear out my hippocampus,

stomp on it, trying to forget every walk to every room and back, to every house and back.

she herself was severe, though, this friend, more sad in an intrinsical way, more dull and rotten than I, via bad chemistry, while I was just a

case of depressive charlatanism gone bad.

Right?

I searched for acceptance in every bed cover's crease and dollar bills I handed them to buy me smokes.

I searched for it, hands on me, and then before then I had searched for it while he asked what's wrong?

You need to tell me what's wrong!

I love you! You need to tell me! Are you ok?

You are funny if you think I responded.

I likened my staring state, I fixed it in my head as a piercing quixotically sad one, once.

My silence was a story in itself.

II

"You loved a man who spoke like greeting cards. 'He fucks me well but I can’t talk to him.'" – Erica Jong It was ultimately guilty,

this time removed from pleasure.

The whole situation, blows to the face

and little slaps of course,

I felt the need to send myself into

a sort of temporary sleep so I forgot

but then would wake up again

because that would mean they won

and this is why I concussed myself once.

He tells me he cares and it's not

that I don't believe him but

it's that I don't believe myself.

I apologize for my being a burden and

he asks me why.

I suppose I am used to it

and if I could stare at him

it would be the same old stare.

"We shared that awful need

to talk in bed.

Love wasn’t love

if we could only speak

in tongues."

– Erica Jong

this is about being schizophrenic, a rape victim, and depressed all at once Whoo #schizophrenia #recovery #rape

Anne Sexton

Dear Anne Sexton

C.'playlist

Vanessa Daou - Dear Anne Sexton  (testo di Erica Jong )

 
My dearest Anne, 
I am living by a lake
with a young man
I met one week after you died.

His beard is red,
his eyes flicker like cat's eyes,
& the amazing plum of his tongue
sweetens my brain.
He is like nobody
since I love him.
His cock sinks deep
in my heart.
*
I have owed you a letter
for months.
*
I wanted to chide 
the manner of your death
the way I might have once
revised your poem. 
You are like nobody
since I love you,
& you are gone.
*
Can you believe 
your death gave birth to me?
Live or die,
you said insistently.
You chose the second
& the first chose me.
I mourned you
& I found him
in one week.
*
Is love the sugar-coated poison
that gets us in the end?
We spoke of men
as often as of poems.
We tried to legislate away
the need for love – 
that backseat fuck
& death caressing you.
*
Why did you do it
in your mother's coat?
(I know
but also know
I have to ask.)
Our mothers get us hooked,
then leave us cold,
all full-grown orphans
hungering after love.
*
You loved a man who sopoe
“like greeting cards.”
“He fucks me well
but I can't talk to him.”
We shared that awful need 
to talk in bed.
Love wasn't love
if we could only speak 
in tongues.
*
& the intensity of unlove
increased
until the motor, the running motor
could no longer power
the driver,
& you, with miles to go,
would rather sleep.
*
Between the pills, the suicide pills
& our giggly vodkas in the Algonquin…
Between your round granny glasses
& your eyes blue as glaciers…
Between your stark mother-hunger
& your mother courage,
you knew there was only one poem
we all were writing.
*
No competition.
“The poem belongs to everyone
& God.”
I jumped out of your car
suicide car
& into his arms.

Your death was mine
I ate it
& returned. 
*
Now I sit by a lake
writing to you.
I love a man
who makes my finger ache.
I type to you
off somewhere in the clouds.
I tap the table
like a spiritualist.
*
Sex is a part of death;
that much I know.
You voice was earth,
your eyes were glacier-blue.
Your slender torso
& long-stemmed American legs
drape across
this huge blue western sky.
*
I wan to tell you “Wait,
don't do it yet.”
Love is the poison, Anne,
but love eats death.

 

Vanessa Daou - Dear Anne Sexton

(il testo è una poesia di Erica Jong)
                   

Ma in generale in Italia l'acqua scorre veloce

Spesso si è in grado di leggere qualche articolo del "Corriere della Sera" prima di pulirsi il sedere con le notizie. Ma in generale in Italia l'acqua scorre veloce e la merda sparisce prima che si faccia in tempo a balzare in piedi e girarsi a guardarla. Per questo gli italiani sono grandi artisti. I tedeschi hanno già la merda da guardare. In mancanza di questo passatempo, gli italiani hanno pensato di scolpire e dipingere

Erica Jong -Paura di volare

al momento buono le cerniere cadono

...al momento buono le cerniere cadono come petali di una rosa sfiorita, la biancheria si sparge nel vento come bambagia di un soffione...

Erica Jong - Paura di volare