De Humani Corporis Fabrica after Vesalius I know the names of almost nothing not the bone between my elbow and my wrist that sometimes aches from breaking years ago and not the plumb line from the pelvis to the knee less ache than hum where in my nineteenth year a blade slit through nerves and… Continue reading John Burnside
Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. —Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 12th edition June 14, 2002) Originally published November 1880.
Believe me these are not just words talking. This is my life, thinking of the darkness to follow. — Mary Oliver, from “Sand Dabs, Three,” West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems (Houghton Mifflin, 1997)
From my rotting body, flowers shall grow, and I am in them, and that is eternity. — Edvard Munch
My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands,— No,—nor my lips freed laughter since ‘farewell’, And with the day, distance again expands Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell. Yet love endures, though starving and alone. A dove’s wings cling about my heart each night With surging gentleness, and the blue stone Set in… Continue reading Hart Crane
I want to explain how exhausted I am. Even in my dreams. How I wake up tired. How I’m being drowned by some kind of black wave. — Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation. (Riverhead Books; 2nd ed. edition October 1, 1995) Originally published 1994.
I wish you were here. Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling and they’re falling like they’re falling in love with the ground and the trees are naked and lonely. I keep trying to tell them new leaves will come around in the spring, but you can’t tell trees those things, they’re… Continue reading Andrea Gibson