Aubade I know my leaving in the breakfast table mess. Bowl spills into bowl: milk and bran, bread crust crumbled. You push me back into bed. More “honey” and “baby.” Breath you tell my ear circles inside me, curls a damp wind and runs the circuit of my limbs. I interrogate… Continue reading Amber Flora Thomas
And then, one fairy night, May became June. ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night. (Scribner; Reprint edition July 1, 1995) Originally published 1934.
Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods. Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt. But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down but the angel flies up again taking us with her. The summer mornings begin inch by inch while we sleep, and walk with us later as long-legged beauty through the… Continue reading Jack Gilbert
No lover, if he be of good faith, and sincere, will deny he would prefer to see his mistress dead than unfaithful. — Donatien Alphonse François / Marquis de Sade
Come, my beloved, consider the lilies. We are of little faith. We talk too much. Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks. Let us consider the view: a house where white… Continue reading Anne Sexton
I saw the black seam of your stocking / Running down the side of the mountain like a creek / I put the whiskey down and listened — Frank Stanford, from “Blue Yodel of the Desperado,” What About This: Collected Poems of Frank Stanford (Copper Canyon Press, 2015)
I will choose from my intimate memories what’s fitting: the scent of wrinkled sheets after making love is the scent of grass after rain. — Mahmoud Darwish, from “Dense Fog Over The Bridge,” If I Were Another: Poems. Translated by Fady Joudah. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 1 edition, October 27, 2009) Originally published 2009.
To write a good love letter, you ought to begin without knowing what you mean to say, and to finish without knowing what you have written. ― Jean-Jacques Rousseau
My tears are like the quiet drift Of petals from some magic rose; And all my grief flows from the rift Of unremembered skies and snows. I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream. — Dylan Thomas, “Clown in the Moon,”… Continue reading Dylan Thomas
I am proud of my heart alone, it is the sole source of everything, all our strength, happiness and misery. All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own. ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther. (Modern Library; Reprint edition, February 8, 2005) Originally published… Continue reading Johann Wolfgang von Goethe