Constantly seeking an affair with the glory of nature, I love this book on travels.
It takes the world around us as inspiration to look at things with a different angle and to learn beyond the comfort zone about the world we live in.
Carol Muske-Dukes’ poetry makes me feel wanderlust all over again and I realise that this need to travel is in me, and never will leave. Her words paint pictures in my mind of risks, excitements and simply living.
(The Invention of Your Face)
Sometimes I wake up in somebody else’s night, somebody else’s day.
Eternal as the sea.
The idea for escalators came from waves.
I watched her changing expressions: I knew how many nights she’s gone searching for you, beyond the movable walls of a dream.
Heaven was always his future.
Sunlit words on a page.
The world was asleep yet alive with threat.
Trying to reverse your belief in imagination.
I was naked face; twenty-seven, a rebel, I thought.
Leaving a faint scent of wisteria on the page.
That body the world wishes both to savour and destroy.
There is an invisible thread between our hearts that can never be broken.
The heart’s nonstop mimicking of what hurts.
A cloud of broken stares.
Where the atmosphere is contradiction.
She knows the dead have rights, the dead are entitled to great tenderness.
Recognise one inhuman face gradually eclipsing the other.
Wild orphaned life.
The way twins unpeel from one another in the womb.
We are women of grief but we wear no black.
It is good to think, sipping wine, how Love always has a beginning and sometimes no end.
Perhaps she is the sweetest whore of imagination.
The dream of body parts floating above cigar smoke.
Pale and beautiful, glittering under her starry feet.
Do I have to be beautiful, I wondered, if I only want peace?
How Lucia fell into dreams “and drowned.”
Death is the mother of beauty.
The world is too much with us.
Sunset and evening star.
But the merciless dictates of hope.
He marries what the eye desires with what it naturally erases.
Because the eye sees we are made and remade in the mind of another mind.
We recognise our galaxy but know nothing of her exile.
Life tries to imitate Art, and art Death – but there’s that flat Stone, in this desert here, where, alone, within a Heartbeat: we are absolutely nothing to each other.
To consummate cold love.
As I peered at myself: ugly, I thought, but for the first time, visible.
The collision of infidelity and longed-for innocence.
We moonwalk above our graves.
The poet writes the world back into being.
Love still trying to live, above, that weary star: reckless wish.