Showing posts from October, 2017

Analysis of Edna St. Vincent Millay's Second Fig

Second Fig
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!


There has been a little conversation between myself and Edna St. Vincent Millay’s speaker in “Second Fig” for months now. Sometimes I would forget to think or talk to her for days or even weeks, then run into her riding the shades of a slow afternoon or merging with the shadows of an eerie night. Most recently, though, I have been finding her lisping within conversations shared with others and reading her on pages here and there. The thing is, often, in polite society, we speak only of our minor headaches in such ways that arouse neither genuine pity nor concern for our wellbeing but shine a dim light on our shared struggles in the search of infinite satiation. And this is why the lines of “Second Fig” are irritating––they are shamelessly honest. They can even be called coarse in that they seem to mock and brag simultaneously without apology. T…

Postcards From Within: Blue-inked, Pinked-blu

Blue-inked, Pinked-blu  by Jane A. Odartey

nothing'sold,  yes. dearest dearest, Sir, nothing's new.  yes?
Your heart bLINK  our suffeRING.  our surrendeRING. We loved before eyes stung. love still in  blur. I am not without you true. not you without  me through. 
We breathe sinking We breathe singing
slurping wordlessly what isn't    yet    iz.
cell in cell as hand in hand as  space ≠ space.

thus think-feel-sense  mine, yOURs, same.
--- Listen to my reading below:

Personal Style: Lots of Prints in Lots of Sun

How is it with you? Noticed I am here just on Mondays now? It's the new blog schedule. I am working on doing less with more presence, pleasure and patience. Count the p's. Lately I've start to catch myself shooting my index fingers in the air and hopping about. Do try it. And is it just me or did this September feel looO_Ooong? Mother had the Dashiki caftan made for me about two years ago on a trip to Ghana. I've altered it. The jacket too was once hers. The thing is, it is a pleasure wearing articles that hold connection to that which I am conscious of loving. The pair of pants is old. The brooch is my handiwork.  Mate, accept this wish: a brilliant Oct-OOO-ber! an OC-to-BE-Rilliance! octOBER-in-Brilli-brilLi!  Xx Jane