You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that. — in a letter to her mother as to why she must live alone. Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay by Nancy Milford. (Random House Trade Paperbacks; Reprint edition September 10, 2002)
Everything we see is a metaphor for what we don’t see. Everything we do is a metaphor for what we don’t do. If you don’t finish this poem it won’t exist. Neither will I. Where do we come from when we come to ourselves? There’s a common thread that hasn’t been established yet. —Richard… Continue reading Richard Jackson
O brain, be flowers that nightingales may come to sing! ― Nikos Kazantzakis, The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel. (Simon & Schuster; Second Printing edition January 1, 1958) Originally published 1938.
What do they call the sadness of a solitary sleep? −−− Pablo Neruda There is a certain remoteness to the puddle. Its brackish water ripples in goose bumps, concealing mud’s sole contemplation that lies just below the surface, dreaming of your misstep . . . — M.J. Iuppa, “Mud,” Poetry Pacific Tuesday, 5 November… Continue reading M.J. Iuppa