the evening party /

a collection of writings, poems and photographs by the anonymous author ︎︎︎  
2019—present ︎︎︎ Index of entries ︎︎︎ Email ︎︎︎

‘Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.’ —The Evening Party, Virginia Woolf

Daffodils Where The Girls

The daffodils
where the girls
play sisters

& chalk rainbows
over their drive, on the throne
of light that makes it through

the trees,
stand up straight to
celebrate in fashion—

waving all at once
to the same joyous
pedestrian she smiled at.

The daffodils growing
upon the lips
of the sea

where the grass
turns its cheek, the dry soil
& wind-battered,

are in mourning
; gathered in rings
around the headless

limp & decayed, their
wet morning petals
faced away celebration.