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AlexandRA.

Its time to pick it apart.
To make that exploration.
To be in touch with what is, 
or all that you will ever know of this place.
Its time to keep the sand in the hand, and use it for production purposes...
However thinly you may have spread it there before...
Its time to get up.
And write it. Write it down down soldier.
You are, you are, you are.
You are entitled 
to build - so knock down the thought of anyone who won't let you
(on purpose, or dimly not so)
And
You are you are
AlexandRA. 

K

Whenever I am scared of new beginnings, or anxious about unfamiliar grounds, whether in love or friendship, work or geography, I think of Kamilya and a number of other women. They, at different stages in their lives, have burned the bridges of comfort and went off towards further living, more intense. They have accepted the loses but celebrated the gains. These women are my heroes.

Helene Cixous: This procedure [demarche] of truth is for me the gift you

give to humanity. In reading you we learn that the truth is always a bit further on. From the place where you arrive, you set off again, you take

yourself back up, you relaunch yourself, you do not sit the truth on your knees. Truth makes you tick [La verite tefait marcher] in all the senses of the word. It's also the law of writing: one can only write in the direction of that which does not let itself be written and which one must try to write. What I can write is already written, it is no longer of interest. I always head towards the most frightening. This is what makes writing thrilling but painful. I write towards what I flee. I dream about it. It is

always a jardin d'Essai, but it is an infernal, expelling garden.

the greed is the unraveling

Sensuality often makes love grow too quickly, so that the root remains weak and is easy to pull out

I think I shall fall in love with grammar

I want to read Caribbean literature

Re-construction site

WE BROKE FREE, 

thank god the gold is mine

WE BROKE FREE

"You knew, even if you wouldn’t admit it now, that leaning in and pulling me close was an act of conquering as much as a foreigner arriving in a strange new land, planting his flag and declaring to everyone he can reach, that the peaks and valleys of this territory are now his."

Yarn wrapped around a wood block stamp

wool becomes a carpet, earth becomes a palace

is not the darkness of letters but the whiteness of a pure heart

just like mine

The mirrors getting old, but its changing what I see
I know I am in love because lovers are internal
each one grips, marking a little threshold - tug at my heart string
there is a little peasant girl who is shooing the flies away from her eyes,
my eyes, the ones that show me so little.
Thumping around down there, in the depts of my confusion, are little mice consolidating my arguments.
A man is putting his chin to my head and I rest a little while, until I realise I have two chins
Rest is my possession now, and I sleep on the little arm of my love
I kiss her on the cheek and tell her little riddles to keep her awake,
her temperament always accommodating, just like mine

From Poem 2 of the Tarjuman al-Ashwaq, translated by R.A. Nicholson.

Wild is she, none can make her his friend

When she kills with her glances, her speech restores to life, as tho she, in giving life thereby, were Jesus.
The smooth surface of her legs is (like) the Tora in brightness, and I follow it and tread in its footsteps as tho' I were Moses.
She is a bishopess, one of the daughters of Rome, unadorned: thou seest in her a radiant Goodness.
Wild is she, none can make her his friend; she has gotten in her solitary chamber a mausoleum for remembrance.
She has baffled everyone who is learned in our religion, every student of the Psalms of David, every Jewish doctor, and every Christian priest.
If with a gesture she demands the Gospel, thou wouldst deem us to be priests and patriarchs and deacons.
The day when they departed on the road, I prepared for war the armies of my patience, host after host.

col quote let

I refuse to contemplate the most beautiful countries of the earth, shrunken in the amorous mirror of your gaze

Colette

I've fallen out of the moon
And I'm only thinking of you

Which only proves that his violence, the fruit of his upbringing, still exists within him. That this intellectual is conscious of his violence doesn't stop him from using it, on the contrary, he expresses it.

im·po·tent  

disturbance (dear M, I am sorry to have caused you trouble)

a crazed moon
tatiana without a horse
olympia where are my truffles?
pleaded like a shackled witch
and waited like an exuberant nympth
Big rooms, greedy caverns
the inches of my distress
and sitting there
puddle of mud, weeper
I can't move in this room
the mirror will fall down
the shower pane will explode!

scrub dem eyes
scrub dem eyes

12 hours of sleep
blood in the bed
oh! come lay your head, my sweet

and muted now, after the scream of another usual disturbance