Tag Archives: love

{berets and bongos} 99;

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“i’ve got to tell you
how i love you always
i think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me i need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

at night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and i am lonely
thinking of flutes

i miss you always
when i go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although i never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and i stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card i’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
i beg you do not go”

-frank o’hara.

a february playlist {a-side};

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{click image for playlist!}

this may or may not be a shock, but i’m really not a romantic.

don’t get me wrong; i love love. i just don’t like the notion that love has to be this compartment that we have to fill with this sounds-like-love, looks-like-love, smells-like-love, feels-like-love-so-it-must-be-love-kind-of-thing. that it must be from someone who is romantically entangled with you for it to be legitimate. that is has to be someone who makes out with you under yellow-lit light posts, or in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, or in the rain, or any other taylor swift-ized notion of romantic love.

love, for me, is how much i spread my appreciation towards the things that have decorated my last 21.9 years on this earth. the cinnamon rolls my grandma forced me out of my fold-out-couch bed every year on christmas even to make, that took three agonizing-yet-delicious hours. my grandfather inviting me to pick corn in the backyard, picking out special ears of corn for each family member.

it’s the tattered old vhs tape of the b-rated, non-disney version of peter pan, which i still think of as the best (can someone pleeeease help me find it).  the elementary school boys who ripped up my gel-pen-decorated love notes (complete with cover letter…wish i was joking) on the bus as i stood and watched them do it (i’m looking at you, hunter, i’m looking at  you and your stupid gelled-back hair.)

the mayonnaise my mother attempts to put in her famous broccoli casserole each new year’s day, that i lovingly pretend not to notice, gets my adoration. it’s your roommate, who chimes in when you pen a katy perry parody song about turkey slices when you really should be sleeping. it’s the moment when you really  made your brother, the funniest person in your small world, really sit back and laugh.

these are the songs that aren’t of the sound-like-love, feel-like-love, taste-like-love, look-like-love, must-be-love sort. they’re the love from your family when you still pick all the dried blueberries out of the box of “blueberry morning” cereal, and the moment when you found a dear friend who did the same thing growing up. mouthing the words to billy madison with your older brother. the matching set of skinned knees you and your best friend got from roller-blading into mailboxes because you still didn’t know how to stop. sure, the ooh-yay-i-just-got-kissed-in-the-rain-by-a-really-big-dream-boat kind are sprinkled in there, but they also deserve a spot in that definition, don’t they?

 what it boils down to is this: hunter the love-note-ripper gets my love. mayonnaise gets my love. i think approaching the world, this world of long-lost-hair-gelled crushes of fifth grade, with all kinds of love is the only way to approach it. i think of valentine’s day under this lens. i think of most special days with this lens. i remember when i was thirteen i read that ronald reagan called his mother-in-law each year on his wife’s birthday to thank her for giving birth to his wife. that sort of love, stretching out of something bigger, is the kind of love i’m trying to hit upon. to love all the things that surround the little moments, the little quirks, the little essences of all your favorite people and memories.
that’s what i’d call love.

photo (3)
{tune in next week for the b-side!}

{berets and bongos} 97;

“you do not always know what I am feeling.

last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t
interest
me, it was love for you that set me
afire,

and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. put out your hand,
isn’t there
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little

different today?
and when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.”

-frank o’hara, “for grace, after a party.”

{berets and bongos} 96;

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{buddy brews. tampa, fl. january 2012}

“i woke in a gold dress
you in jeans.

morning filled
wine bottles

in the kitchen
ashine with

fine mica glitter
of fish scales and salt.

it was quiet.

we coiled in scarves
outside –

me sugar, you milk.

you said: that went well,
don’t you think?

sun behind you

i kissed the hole in the light
and said, yes.”

-rebecca lindenberg, “aubade”.

a winter’s tale;

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{click above for playlist!}

winter, in my eyes, is kind of the best. it’s a time of upheaval. of paring things down. there’s always a certain case of giddiness i get when winter rolls around, and that’s not even because of christmas or the holidays. i love the dead cold of january. i even love the brand of post-january 1st dreariness that only merits a bag full of $1 books and a new kind of cookie. maybe this shows the floridian in me, but summer dulls me down while winter perks me up like a shot of espresso to the brain.

it’s a built-in recharge button. a season of snooze-ing alarm clocks and basking in the warmth of your space heater because you have #anemicgirlproblems. whistling tea kettles. dust-covered hello kitty house slippers. late-night bananagrams. it’s crusty bread and soup and apple cake and mulled cider and buckeyes.

winter is a kind of music that sounds like drinking whiskey. it’s paradoxically warm and biting. it’s staying up later than you reckoned because it’s dark all the time and you can’t tell the difference between 4am and 4pm. winter is clean and bright and shiny. winter is going out dancing until midnight because you know it’s a cheap way to stay warm. winter is pretend “smoking” with the cold air and a fake cigarette between your hands, like a seven year old. winter is basically permission to be seven years old.  i don’t think people really appreciate winter past january 1st, and i think that’s a shame.

because like, best of all, no need to shave. that’s really the best part about winter, amiright?

all of the thanks;

thanks to having enough time to read books for pleasure this semester….err, i don’t actually have the time to do it, but i stubbornly assume i do…and then don’t do required readings. so, um. whoops. but thanks.

thanks be to louis c.k., sangria, and fresh skeins of yarn. that is all i need.

thank you to eight minute “cleaning lady” version of  fleetwood mac’s “sara” (“i wanna be a star! i don’t wanna be a cleaning lady!”= my new mantra for post-grad life.)

thanks to the hello kitty house slippers that make me forget i have the worst circulation in all the land. #anemicgirlproblems.

thanks be to the lovely state of massachusetts. your weather confusion, subway performers, and creepy churches keep me smitten with you despite the snot-filled, 27 degree bike rides i endure each morning.

thanks to the bulldog upstairs that really isn’t supposed to be upstairs. even though my landlord doesn’t know about you, i’m glad i get to pet you illegally every other morning or so.

thanks to the right to vote. and the eight year-olds that tried to sell me quiche as i waited in line at the elementary down the street. classic brookline, massachusetts.

thank you insulting bowling alley personas, and salty tasty burger fries.

thanks to the tea selection at the tj maxx down the road (whatever, it’s so good!) and the odd stares i get from my friends when i tell them i have to “stop by tj maxx to get more tea.”

thanks to all of my coffee mugs for looking so damn cute in my  pantry alcove.

thanks for having a dreamy apartment with a freaking pantry alcove.

thanks for three weeks and a plane flight being the only barrier between loving on this nugget.

thanks to the dirty jokes my mother texts me each morning. you are the best way to wake up.

thanks to you, dear reader, for sticking around for my rambles. i adore each and everyone of you. really and truly.

{berets and bongos} 88;

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“notice how he has numbered the blue veins
in my breast. moreover there are ten freckles.
now he goes left. now he goes right.
he is building a city, a city of flesh.
he’s an industrialist. he has starved in cellars
and, ladies and gentlemen, he’s been broken by iron,
by the blood, by the metal, by the triumphant
iron of his mother’s death. but he begins again.
now he constructs me. he is consumed by the city.
from the glory of words he has built me up.
from the wonder of concrete he has molded me.
he has given me six hundred street signs.
the time i was dancing he built a museum.
he built ten blocks when i moved on the bed.
he constructed an overpass when i left.
i gave him flowers and he built an airport.
for traffic lights he handed at red and green
lollipops. yet in my heart i am go children slow.”

-anne sexton, “mr. mine”.

{berets and bongos} 87;

{cafe pamplona. cambridge. fall 2012. }

“i like pouring your tea, lifting
the heavy pot, and tipping it up,
so the fragrant liquid streams in your china cup.

or when you’re away, or at work,
i like to think of your cupped hands as you sip,
as you sip, of the faint half-smile of your lips.

i like the questions – sugar? – milk? –
and the answers i don’t know by heart, yet,
for i see your soul in your eyes, and i forget.

jasmine, gunpowder, assam, earl grey, ceylon,
i love tea’s names. which tea would you like? i say
but it’s any tea for you, please, any time of day,

as the women harvest the slopes
for the sweetest leaves, on mount wu-yi,
and i am your love, smitten, straining your tea.”

-carol ann shields, rapture.

{berets and bongos} 85;

“have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it’s no use worrying about time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn’t need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

i wouldn’t want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me o you
were the best of all my days”.

- frank o’hara, animals.

{be back soon! my laptop is nearly ready to be back in my arms (away from wine bottles) and i’m bursting at the seams with things to tell you all. we’ll call this poem an appetizer of sorts. }