Firefly Under the Tongue Translated by Forrest Gander I love you from the sharp tang of the fermentation; in the blissful pulp. Newborn insects, blue. In the unsullied juice, glazed and ductile. Cry that distills the light: through the fissures in fruit trees; under mossy water clinging to the shadows.… Continue reading Coral Bracho
Kiss me as you make believe“Solitude was my only consolation—deep, dark, deathlike solitude. — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein. (Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones, 1818)
you do not know my face, as if I’m a flower, blind, my petals pursed; so, here and there your lips brush, till I grow aware of want and burst wide open. — Robert Browning, from “In a Gondola,” The Oxford book of English verse, 1250–1900. Edited by A. T. Quiller-Couch. Oxford: Clarendon, 1919, [c1901]
In fear I hurried this way and that. I had the taste of blood and chocolate in my mouth, the one as hateful as the other. — Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf. (Penguin Books, Limited (UK); New Ed edition February 25, 1999) Originally published 1927.
Words – glass that unfaithfully reflects my sky – I thought of you after sunset in a darkened street when a pane fell to the stones and its fragments at length spread shattered light – — Antonia Pozzi, from “Reflections,” In Translation April, 2012. Translated from the Italian by Nicholas Benson.
…we chase after ghosts and spirits and are left holding only memories and dreams. It’s not that we want what we can’t have; it’s that we’ve held all we could want and then had to watch it slip away. – Charles de Lint, Moonlight and Vines. (Orb Books; Reprint edition December 27, 2005) Originally published… Continue reading Charles de Lint
There will be time in the long days and nights, stunned by the sun or driven by the stars, to unwind your spool of life. You will learn again what you always knew— the wind sweeps everything away. —Theo Dorgan, from “Ithacafor,” Answering Back: Living poets reply to the poetry of the past. Edited by… Continue reading Theo Dorgan
I’m filled with a desire for clarity and meaning within a world and condition that offers neither. — Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus. (Penguin Classic November 26, 2013) Originally published 1942.
The conclusion is to live for oneself because all the rest can’t reach you and because it’s always too late to start over without fissures without excuses because you are invariably on your own. — Isabel Cadenas Cañón, from “To Leave,” In Translation June, 2012. (Translated by Kenneth Heaton and Margarita Larios)
Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, A Nice Quiet Place. (1930)