Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry Relax. This won’t last long. Or if it does, or if the lines make you sleepy or bored, give in to sleep, turn on the T.V., deal the cards. This poem is built to withstand such things. Its feelings cannot be hurt. They exist… Continue reading Stephen Dunn
Sometimes she sat on the back patio of her house alone and looked at the fields, wondering how far she’d travel from this exact place. — Jayne Anne Phillips, Machine Dreams. (Vintage; 1st edition November 9, 1999) Originally published 1984.
I said goodbye again sucking up all that was left of her into the little that was left of me. I said, don’t look for me again. fuck it. we are all lost. goodbye, goodbye. — Charles Bukowski, from “Rimbaud be damned,” The People Look Like Flowers at Last. (Ecco; First Edition edition March… Continue reading Charles Bukowski
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always… Continue reading James Joyce
Suddenly this defeat. This rain. The blues gone gray And the browns gone gray And yellow A terrible amber. In the cold streets Your warm body. In whatever room Your warm body. Among all the people Your absence The people who are always Not you. I have been easy with trees Too long. Too familiar… Continue reading Jack Gilbert
The more you love me, the more I will ruin you. / I will take my darkness and I will push it inside you. — David Levithan, from “lying awake beside you, these thoughts run through my head,” The Realm of Possibility. (Alfred A. Knopf; Reprint edition May 9, 2006)
Brave love, dream not of staunching such strict flame, but come, lean to my wound; burn on, burn on. — Sylvia Plath, from “Firesong,” The Collected Poems. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Reprint edition September 2, 2008)