In the Museum of Lost Objects What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee; What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage. — Ezra Pound You’ll find labels describing what is gone: an empress’s bones, a stolen painting of a man in a feathered helmet holding a flag-draped spear. A vellum gospel, hidden… Continue reading Rebecca Lindenberg
You look at me, you look at me closely, each time closer and then we play cyclops, we look at each other closer each time and our eyes grow, they grow closer, they overlap and the cyclops look at each other, breathing confusion, their mouths find each other and fight warmly, biting with their lips,… Continue reading Julio Cortáza
Once there was no language for the weather, just The sky is low and birdless; or The sky is a box of wings. — Allison Titus, from “Inclement,” Sum of Every Lost Ship: Poems. (Cleveland State U Poetry Center; 1 edition November 16, 2009)
But poets don’t want homes — do they? — they are not creatures of hearths and firedogs, but of heaths and ranging hounds. ― A.S. Byatt, Possession. (Vintage October 1, 1991)
Perhaps the whisper was born before lips, And the leaves in treelessness circled and flew, And those, to whom we impart our experience as bliss, Acquire their forms before we do. — Osip Mandelstam, from “Octaves”, inTranslation: Poetry | Russia | Russian March, 2011. “‘Octaves’ and Other Poems by Osip Mandelstam.” Translated from the Russian… Continue reading Osip Mandelstam
Only God knows how much I love you. ― Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera. (Vintage October 7, 2003) Originally published 1985.
This time, I have left my body behind me, crying In its dark thorns. Still, There are good things in this world. It is dusk. It is the good darkness Of women’s hands that touch loaves. The spirit of a tree begins to move. I touch leaves. I close my eyes and think of water.… Continue reading James Wright
[…] and tentatively, unbelievingly, unfolding into another spring, when the damn world makes us think we are as young as we ever were and deceives us by pale lucid skies and the sudden opening of little leaves. — Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. (Anchor; Unabridged edition December 18, 2007)
We descend into solitude step by step further and further down stanzas of verses into depths never expected — Anna Kamieńska, from “Into Solitude,” Astonishments. (Paraclete Press (MA); First Edition edition July 1, 2007)
There has been frost enough. We must have summer now, and ‘whole legions’ of daisies.— Emily Dickinson, The Life and Letters of Emily Dickinson. (Biblo-Tannen; illustrated edition edition June 1971) in a letter to Dr. and Mrs. J. G. Holland, 24 September 1859.