Mary Szybist Quotes
Quotes tagged as "mary-szybist"
Showing 1-30 of 62
“Apology
I didn't mean to say so much to you.
I should have thought to let the evening end
by looking at the stars subdued
into their antique blue and alabaster hues.
Such looking would have fit with my intent.
I didn't mean to speak that way to you.
If I could take it back, I'd take it, undo
it, and replace it with the things I meant
to give—not what I let slip (it's true)
like any pristine star of ornamental hue.
I do not always do what I intend.
I didn't mean to say so much to you.
It slipped before I saw, before I knew.
Or do we always do what we intend?
Perhaps it's true and all along I knew
what I was saying—but how I wanted you.
I should have thought to let the evening end.
The placid stars seemed filled and then subdued
by what I did and did not want to do.”
― Granted
I didn't mean to say so much to you.
I should have thought to let the evening end
by looking at the stars subdued
into their antique blue and alabaster hues.
Such looking would have fit with my intent.
I didn't mean to speak that way to you.
If I could take it back, I'd take it, undo
it, and replace it with the things I meant
to give—not what I let slip (it's true)
like any pristine star of ornamental hue.
I do not always do what I intend.
I didn't mean to say so much to you.
It slipped before I saw, before I knew.
Or do we always do what we intend?
Perhaps it's true and all along I knew
what I was saying—but how I wanted you.
I should have thought to let the evening end.
The placid stars seemed filled and then subdued
by what I did and did not want to do.”
― Granted
“It would have been easier to give in
to the shape assigned him, not to have summoned
the cry—”
― Granted
to the shape assigned him, not to have summoned
the cry—”
― Granted
“I return to tracing
the line. It's not unlike the way
I trace myself back to myself
after returning from spaces that have
no place in me. Not unlike the way
I trace over moments with you when you
are no one I recognize.”
― Granted
the line. It's not unlike the way
I trace myself back to myself
after returning from spaces that have
no place in me. Not unlike the way
I trace over moments with you when you
are no one I recognize.”
― Granted
“as if I am an instrument he is tuning,
or as if (adjusting his mask) he is adjusting an instrument
to look through me—”
― Granted
or as if (adjusting his mask) he is adjusting an instrument
to look through me—”
― Granted
“Approaching Elegy
It's hard to believe you are dying: like looking
at a Jamesian scene, skipping past happiness
to a garden bench beyond the trees. You fill the form
ofheroine:you sit in your black dress, too tired to imagine
the rest of yourself.
An old suitor appears, grabs you possibly
too forcefully by the wrists (he is still impossibly
in love—). You disengage your wrists. He leans forward, looks
into your eyes, which you close—as if you were all by yourself.
He moves closer, talking very fast about happiness.
He places his cloak on your shoulders, imagines
he'll rescue you. Around you, forms
grow darker: house, branch, hydrangea. Above you, freckled
expanses of leaves form
the beginnings of barbed, lopsided shrouds—a possible
solace. If only his kiss could please you, I wouldn't need to imagine
past the clean architecture of the story. And perhaps it is wrong to look
past that. Wrong to ask about happiness.
Past midnight, he continues to offer himself.
Before, he had offered aimless passion, but now (you see it for yourself)
he has an idea: he points into the darkness. He is grave, formal.
The dark has swallowed the long shadows of the oaks (though not
your unhappiness)
—and it is about to swallow you. Soon, it will no longer be possible
(there is just one more page to turn) for me to look
through your eyes, so I would like to imagine
for you: something past tragedy. Just as I would like to imagine
that we are not in danger, that we have selves
more solid than stars, that we are safe in the pages of books we can
reopen to look
at each other. Except that we are not women formed
of words, but of impossible
longings. What was it that you wanted besides happiness?
You are dying. I have no ideas about happiness
and no patience to imagine
it possible.
Soon you will not be the heroine; you will not be yourself.
And it's not that you've lost the formula; your form
is losing you. Look
at how brave you are: I imagined the great point was to be happy,
as happy as possible
with the quick forms that imagine us—but the last time I looked
there you were—distant and bright in the not so blue darkness,
imagining yourself.”
― Granted
It's hard to believe you are dying: like looking
at a Jamesian scene, skipping past happiness
to a garden bench beyond the trees. You fill the form
ofheroine:you sit in your black dress, too tired to imagine
the rest of yourself.
An old suitor appears, grabs you possibly
too forcefully by the wrists (he is still impossibly
in love—). You disengage your wrists. He leans forward, looks
into your eyes, which you close—as if you were all by yourself.
He moves closer, talking very fast about happiness.
He places his cloak on your shoulders, imagines
he'll rescue you. Around you, forms
grow darker: house, branch, hydrangea. Above you, freckled
expanses of leaves form
the beginnings of barbed, lopsided shrouds—a possible
solace. If only his kiss could please you, I wouldn't need to imagine
past the clean architecture of the story. And perhaps it is wrong to look
past that. Wrong to ask about happiness.
Past midnight, he continues to offer himself.
Before, he had offered aimless passion, but now (you see it for yourself)
he has an idea: he points into the darkness. He is grave, formal.
The dark has swallowed the long shadows of the oaks (though not
your unhappiness)
—and it is about to swallow you. Soon, it will no longer be possible
(there is just one more page to turn) for me to look
through your eyes, so I would like to imagine
for you: something past tragedy. Just as I would like to imagine
that we are not in danger, that we have selves
more solid than stars, that we are safe in the pages of books we can
reopen to look
at each other. Except that we are not women formed
of words, but of impossible
longings. What was it that you wanted besides happiness?
You are dying. I have no ideas about happiness
and no patience to imagine
it possible.
Soon you will not be the heroine; you will not be yourself.
And it's not that you've lost the formula; your form
is losing you. Look
at how brave you are: I imagined the great point was to be happy,
as happy as possible
with the quick forms that imagine us—but the last time I looked
there you were—distant and bright in the not so blue darkness,
imagining yourself.”
― Granted
“It's not what he was promised.
The land looks strange, unearthly strange
and unforgivable.”
― Granted
The land looks strange, unearthly strange
and unforgivable.”
― Granted
“The Technique of the Lifelike
I had imagined death thrillingly:
my arms held behind to restrain their frivolous occasions,
the whole of me bending
like a tall yellow lily before you.
Yet set see how my hands go on with their thoughts.
See how I fold and fold my handkerchief.
I am not a great lady.
I don't swoon with love.
My stricken, I cannot render you as you
move quickly toward your skillful execution,
your shoulders tossing their indifference to the dark,
your face overlaid with stage effects.
You grow irresistibly small. Your hands and feet expire.
This is where sculpture also fails, this is where I turn
wholly unattached and without debt.
What is the use of crowning you in glory?
Now my fingers make bowls for rain: in your honor: hope for nothing.
We knew our disposition long ago.”
― Granted
I had imagined death thrillingly:
my arms held behind to restrain their frivolous occasions,
the whole of me bending
like a tall yellow lily before you.
Yet set see how my hands go on with their thoughts.
See how I fold and fold my handkerchief.
I am not a great lady.
I don't swoon with love.
My stricken, I cannot render you as you
move quickly toward your skillful execution,
your shoulders tossing their indifference to the dark,
your face overlaid with stage effects.
You grow irresistibly small. Your hands and feet expire.
This is where sculpture also fails, this is where I turn
wholly unattached and without debt.
What is the use of crowning you in glory?
Now my fingers make bowls for rain: in your honor: hope for nothing.
We knew our disposition long ago.”
― Granted
“What if they didn't know how to feel,
not even how they were supposed to feel.
Imagine: there would be no mercy in them.”
― Granted
not even how they were supposed to feel.
Imagine: there would be no mercy in them.”
― Granted
“I have only to touch you to besuddenly lifted
into the cradle of your arms, tosurrender completely....”
― Granted
into the cradle of your arms, tosurrender completely....”
― Granted
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