The Moths There’s a kind of white moth, I don’t know what kind, that glimmers by mid-May in the forest, just as the pink mocassin flowers are rising. If you notice anything, it leads you to notice more and more. And anyway I was so full of energy. I was always running around, looking at… Continue reading Mary Oliver
I know I am but summer to your heart / And not the full four seasons of the year. ― Edna St. Vincent Millay, from “Sonnet IV,” The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, July 26, 2004) Originally published 1920.
“When I was just as far as I could walk From here today, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against a flower I heard you talk. Don’t say I didn’t, for I heard you say— You spoke from that flower on the window sill— Do you remember what it was… Continue reading Robert Frost
Some nights were so / sensory I felt that starlight landing on my back / and believed I could set fire to things with my fingers — Denis Johnson, from “Talking Richard Wilson Blues, by Richard Clay Wilson,” The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly: Poems New and Collected (HarperCollins,… Continue reading Denis Johnson
At what point is something gone completely? The last of the sunlight is disappearing even as it swells— Just for this evening, won’t you put me before you until I’m far enough away you can believe in me? — Mary Szybist, from “The Troubadours, Etc.,” Incarnadine: Poems (Graywolf Press, 2013)
…I have a feeling of being at home when I am with Sien, a feeling that she gives me my own hearth, that our lives are interwoven. This is a heartfelt, deep feeling, serious, and not without a dark shadow of her gloomy past and mine, as if some evil threatened us, against which we… Continue reading Vincent van Gogh
The past is a terrifying place. Why would anyone choose to live there? Don’t forget me, they say, the ghosts expulsed by dawn have ceased to phosphoresce. It is not crucial that I write but that I record a few of these atypical migrations of the human soul. Yes, there is one I recognize only… Continue reading D. A. Powell
And in the kisses, what deep sweetness! There are women’s mouths that seem to ignite with love the breath that opens them. Whether they are reddened by blood richer than purple, or frozen by the pallor of agony, whether they are illuminated by the goodness of consent or darkened by the shadow of disdain, they… Continue reading Gabriele D’Annunzio
I love all things that pass: their briefness is Music that fades on transient silences. Winds, birds, and glittering leaves that flare and fall— They fling delight across the world; they call To rhythmic-flashing limbs that rove and race… A moment in the dawn for Youth’s lit face; A moment’s passion, closing on the cry—… Continue reading Siegfried Sassoon
But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind. — Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale. (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, April 25, 2017) Originally published 1985.