All that you saw and heard and could not find the center of, those days growing into years, growing inside of you, out of reach, now with you forever, in your house, in your garden, in corridors of dream where I finally tell you my name. — Cynthia Huntington, “Ghost,” The Radiant. (Four Way; 1st… Continue reading Cynthia Huntington
‘You see,’ I said, ‘I’m a socialist. I don’t think this world was made for a small minority to dance on the faces of everyone else.’ — H. G. Wells, In the Days of the Comet. (Ariel Pr April 1999) Originally published 1906.
In the Month of May In the month of May when all leaves open, I see when I walk how well all things lean on each other, how the bees work, the fish make their living the first day. Monarchs fly high; then I understand I love you with what in me is unfinished. I… Continue reading Robert Bly
The beauty of things must be that they end. — Jack Kerouac, Tristessa. (Penguin Books June 1, 1992) Originally published 1960.
We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory ― Louise Glück, from “Nostos,” Poems 1962-2012. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux November 5, 2013) Originally January 1st 2012.
What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes. ― Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen. (New Directions; F First Edition… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
We write Poems with lies in them, but they help a little. — Robert Bly, from “Bad People,” Morning Poems. (Harper Perennial; 1st HarperFlamingo Ed edition January 23, 1998)
As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment. —John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men (Covici Friede, 1937)
I am not myself, and cannot ever be again. I am my own emptiness, trying to fill my emptiness with words. — Robert Kroetsch, from “Letters to Salonika,” Completed Field Notes: The Long Poems of Robert Kroetsch. (The University of Alberta Press; First Edition edition November 10, 2000) Originally published 1989.
A sigh isn’t just a sigh. We inhale the world and breathe out meaning. While we can. While we can. ― Salman Rushdie, The Moor’s Last Sigh. (Pantheon January 13, 1996)