"woolfe" poems
“I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier ’til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.”
- Virginia Woolfe
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
3-14-2014
I don't want to be like Plath, Woolfe, Bishop or Dickinson who confess depression on paper. I want to describes objectively and subjectively my experiences and reality as I perceive it, painful and aching, beautiful and healing--and what makes such moments so.
I want to record my observations and arrange them into a work of art. I want to create something heinous and beautiful, , and interpretation of the shards of my life collected where my true self is reflected and others who feel the same can relate and also feel sane.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
I don’t want to be like Plath, Woolfe, or any other female writer who is categorized by confessing depression on paper. I want to describe my subjectivity and contrast it with objectivity, record reality as I perceive it, and analyze my most relevant moments; I want to collect soothing ones, painful ones, and all outside and in between, arranging my observations and most prominent memories into a work of art. I want to create something heinous and beautiful, an interpretation of a specific type of life where I am riddled through the spaces, cracks, unfinished bits, rushed strokes and flaws, filling what’s unsaid with myself, where I am what’s reflected. My life is a mosaic where everything is broken and together, beautiful, but nowhere near perfect, and I cannot stop staring at what I’ve created from what has been provided. The pieces I arranged I did so with variety; some were carefully placed, some impulsively stuck, and some I smashed myself, to be destructive and see what it would look like after. Moments, like assorted glass, are sometimes broken, smooth, colorful, jagged, curved, sharp and dull, but when they are placed together, their individual qualities are no longer emphasized, and the importance lies in the whole piece of what is created. A mosaic is the essence of the artist with the ability to reflect the artist’s design, like a mirror.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
i have to drown
a necessary reprieve, a last chance to truly breathe--
escaping that living crown
so fitfully placed upon my head
i've always preferred the dull gray
the drab of concrete always more appealing than gold
i sole my shoes with it, wrap it around my neck
looking at my sadness reflected by this watery mirror
history repeats itself
the mirrored melancholy of her and i
two corpses having a tea party
at the bottom of river ouse
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC