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Alejandra Pizarnik

Alejandra Pizarnik Books

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Árbol de Diana

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“I don't know how to speak anymore. And with whom? I never found a soulmate. No one was a dream. They left me with open dreams, with my central wound wide open, with my heart torn. I mourn myself; this is my right. And yet I look down on those who take no interest in me. My only desire has been. I will not say it. Even I, or especially I, betray myself. Like a nursing boy, my soul has been soothed. I don't know how to speak anymore. I can't speak anymore. I have taken apart, what they never gave me, which was all I had. And it is death again. It closes in on me, it is my only horizon. No one resembles my dream. I have felt love and they mistreated it, yes, me, I who never loved. The deepest love will disappear forever. What can we love that isn't a shadow? The sacred dreams of childhood have already died, and with them, those of nature, which loved me.”

LovePainLossSeparationSoulmatesVoidPartingWoundLove Sickness
Book:Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972
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“And now what will I do with all this time that forms my life with all these people who care nothing for me now, that you've left all these nights why, for whom and this morning for nothing returning my heart banging for whom why banging gravely, gravely, and now how to face up to that nothingness my life slipping o friends be gentle you know well we have nothing to do with it And now what will I do now that you . . .”

PoetryPoemAloneAbandonedNothingnessSuicidalAlejandra PizarnikThe Galloping Hour
Book:The Galloping Hour: French Poems
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“Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —”

InspirationPoetryPoemSadMemoryRevengeMuseAlejandra PizarnikThe Galloping HourMy Favorite Poem
Book:The Galloping Hour: French Poems
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