O soul, thou pleasest me—I thee; Sailing these seas, or on the hills, or waking in the night, Thoughts, silent thoughts, of Time, and Space, and Death, like waters flowing, Bear me, indeed, as through the regions infinite, Whose air I breathe, whose ripples hear—lave me all over; Bathe me, O God, in thee—mounting to… Continue reading Walt Whitman
In addition to my other numerous acquaintances, I have one more intimate confidant…My depression is the most faithful mistress I have known — no wonder, then, that I return the love. — Søren Kierkegaard, “Diapsalmata,” Vol. 1, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life. (Penguin Classics; Revised ed. edition December 1, 1992) Originally published in 1843.
Botticelli’s St. Sebastian I have seen a robin cock his head so, Listening for the change in weather, Feeling in the field’s pale grass turning paler The moment of his own departure. I have seen the bird throw his whole body In the air, and go, the small bird go. And the bared ground at… Continue reading Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything. Nothing is static, everything is evolving, everything is falling apart. — Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club. Publisher: W. W. Norton (October 17, 2005)
It comes about that the drifting of these curtains Is full of long motions, as the ponderous Deflations of distance; or as clouds Inseparable from their afternoons; Or the changing of light, the dropping Of the silence, wide sleep and solitude Of night, in which all motion Is beyond us, as the firmament, Up-rising and… Continue reading Wallace Stevens
None sing as purely as those in deepest hell; it is their singing we take for the singing of angels. ― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena: Expanded and Revised in a New Translation. (Schocken; Revised, Updated edition, April 7, 1990) Originally published 1952.
If this comes creased and creased again and soiled as if I’d opened it a thousand times to see if what I’d written here was right, it’s all because I looked too long for you to put in your pocket. Midnight says the little gifts of loneliness come wrapped by nervous fingers. What I wanted… Continue reading Ted Kooser