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he ocean on whose surface vessels (personified as female) can ride but in whose depth sailors meet their death and monsters conceal themselves.

Related Topics

Death Depth Female Menses Monster Moon Ocean Ride Sailor Themselves Tide

Bagwalas

Popular Authors

Marilyn Monroe Paulo Coelho Abraham Lincoln C. S. Lewis Khalil Gibran Charlie Chaplin Gautama Buddha Isaac Newton

Life on the planet is born of woman.
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As a society in turmoil, we are going to see more, and more various, attempts to simulate order through repression; and art is a historical target for such efforts.
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Women’s art, though created in solitude, wells up out of community.
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I feel more helpless with you than without you.
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No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees, sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air, dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding, our animal passion rooted in the city.
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To work and suffer is to be at home. All else is scenery.
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The mind’s passion is all for singling out. Obscurity has another tale to tell.
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It requires enormous commitment like any art. But there’s a core of desire in each of us and poetry goes to and comes from that core. It’s the social, economic, institutional gap that makes it difficult.
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When the landscape buckles and jerks around, when a dust column of debris rises from the collapse of a block of buildings on bodies that could have been your own, when the staves of history fall awry and the barrel of time bursts apart.
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In America we have only the present tense. I am in danger. You are in danger.
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So endlessly, still expecting to be believed. We are accustomed to the contempt inherent in the political lie.
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Since men are loyal at least to their own world-view, their laws of brotherhood and self-interest.
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The mother’s battle for her child with sickness, with poverty, with war, with all the forces of exploitation and callousness that cheapen human life needs to become a common human battle, waged in love and in the passion for survival.
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There is the falsely mystical view of art that assumes a kind of supernatural inspiration, a possession by universal forces unrelated to questions of power and privilege or the artist’s relation to bread and blood. In this view.
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If you teach, you see this is not true. It may be that newer generations do not worship the text as some of their elders do.
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Pride is a tricky, glorious, double-edged feeling.
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