The Silence Though the air is full of singing my head is loud with the labor of words. Though the season is rich with fruit, my tongue hungers for the sweet of speech. Though the beech is golden I cannot stand beside it mute, but must say ‘It is golden,’ while the leaves stir and… Continue reading Wendell Berry
I thought I had died and that death meant repeating a name forever. — Alejandra Pizarnik, from “Cornerstone,” Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 – 1972. (New Directions; 1 edition May 17, 2016) Originally published October 1994.
Who will take my hand and lead me to you? Who will take my hand that is on fire, that smells of earth, that is burning now to an autumnal rust? Who will lead me to the ceremonies of sorrow? — Philip Levine, from “Burned,” What Work Is (Knopf; Reprint edition August 31, 2011)
You don’t need water to feel like you’re drowning, do you? ― Jodi Picoult, Nineteen Minutes. (Atria Books; 1st edition March 5, 2007)
But some words like some notes That never pronounce themselves, Are meant for at most Ten people in the whole world Whose oxygen is storms. — Medbh McGuckian, from “East of Mozart,” Marconi’s Cottage. (Wake Forest University Press; First Edition edition July 1, 1992)
How dare the world be beautiful when I was so horrifying? ― Rachel Hartman, Seraphina. (Ember; Reprint edition December 23, 2014)
She’s pressing me gently with a hot steam iron, or she slips her hand inside me as if I were a sock that needed mending. The thread she uses is like the trickle of my blood, but the needle’s sharpness is all her own. — Charles Simic, from “She’s pressing me …,” The World Doesn’t… Continue reading Charles Simic