Comes down from the mountain the cream-colored horse, comes across dun fields and steps lightly into the house, and stands in the bright living room cloud-like and silent. And now, without warning, the gray arm of the wind takes him away. “I loved that horse,” thought the poet. “I could have loved anything, but I… Continue reading Mark Strand
I say I want to save the world but really I want to write poems all day I want to rise, write poems, go to sleep, Write poems in my sleep Make my dreams poems Make my body a poem with beautiful clothes I want my face to be a poem. — Dorothea Lasky, from… Continue reading Dorothea Lasky
Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in childhood, when it first occurred to you that you don’t go on forever. It must have been shattering, stamped into one’s memory. And yet I can’t remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We… Continue reading Tom Stoppard
Our hands are light blue and gentle. Our eyes are full of terrible confessions. — Anne Sexton, from “The Black Art,” The Complete Poems. (Mariner Books; First Edition edition April 28, 1999) Originally published September 30th 1981.
I crave the unreadability of the sound of your footsteps. — Alfred de Musset, Correspondance de George Sand Et D’Alfred de Musset. (Nabu Press April 20, 2010) Originally published August 1st 2001.
Trust the wind, my lover, and the water. They have the answers to all your questions and mine. — Erica Jong, from “Middle Aged Lovers, I,” Becoming Light: Poems New and Selected (Open Road Media, 2013)