And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, “My need is more desperate!” and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out. ― Anne Sexton, from… Continue reading Anne Sexton
Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why. ― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five. (pp. 76-77) Published by Delacorte (1969)
THOU liest dead, and there will be no memory left behind Of thee or thine in all the earth, for never didst thou bind The roses of Pierian streams upon thy brow; thy doom Is now to flit with unknown ghosts in cold and nameless gloom. Sappho, “The One Who Loved Not Poetry,” Greek Poets… Continue reading Sappho
Something in me vibrates to the dusky, dreamy smell—a smell of dying moons and shadows. — Zelda Fitzgerald, Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. (Bloomsbury Publishing PLC; New edition edition October 6, 2003) Edited by Jackson R. Bryer & Cathy W. Barks; Originally published 1985.
Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed. The Milky Way streams silver through the night. I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams I have no cause to wake or trouble you. And, as they say, the incident is closed. Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind. Now you and I are quits.… Continue reading Vladimir Mayakovsky
At the end there is double despair: that of the writer, / and that of the witness. — Edmond Jabès, The Book of Questions , Vol 1 [The Book of Questions, The Book of Yukel, Return to the Book] (Wesleyan; Rev. ed. Trans. from the French edition September 15, 1991) Originally published 1963.
But the room is cold, the words in the books are cold; And the question of whether we get what we ask for Is absurd, unanswered by the sound of an unlatched door Rattling in the wind, or the sound of snow on roofs, or glare Of the winter sun. What we have learned is… Continue reading Weldon Kees
My heart had grown older, with more in it to break. — Barbara Kingsolver, The Lacuna. (Harper; 1 edition November 3, 2009)
The River Of Bees In a dream I returned to the river of bees Five orange trees by the bridge and Beside two mills my house Into whose courtyard a blind man followed The goats and stood singing Of what was older Soon it will be fifteen years He was old he will have fallen… Continue reading W.S. Merwin
For I have learned / To look on nature, not as in the hour / Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes / The still, sad music of humanity. ― William Wordsworth, from “Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey,” Lyrical Ballads by William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Michael Schmidt (Editor) (Penguin Classics January 30,… Continue reading William Wordsworth