There’s No Forgetting Ask me where I have been and I’ll tell you: “Things keep on happening.” I must talk of the rubble that darkens the stones; of the river’s duration, destroying itself; I know only the things that the birds have abandoned, or the ocean behind me, or my sorrowing sister. Why the distinctions… Continue reading Pablo Neruda
No deep and strong feeling, such as we may come across here and there in the world, is unmixed with compassion. The more we love, the more the object of our love seems to be a victim. ― Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago. (Hallmark Editions; First Thus edition January 1, 1967) Originally published January 1st 1965.
Is Memory, as they pretend, mother of the Muse?— or Forgetting, who says My friend, I know you’ve told me before about love, death, solitude—and what were those other things?—but tell me again. — James Richardson, “Again,” During (Copper Canyon Press, 2016)
Transfixed to the, by the, on the congruities, who is herself a vanishing point coming to closure — dusky flutter — trilling away like a watchdog on drugged sop, channeling her mother and grandmother who’ve engraved on her locket phrases in script: “glide on a blade” and “rustling precedes the shuck.” This is not my… Continue reading Aaron Shurin
Bring me a drink. I need to think a little. Paper. Pen. And I could use the stink of a good cigar–even though the sun’s out. The grackles in the trees. The grackles inside my heart. Broken feathers and stiff wings. I could jump. But I don’t. You could kill me. But you won’t. The… Continue reading Sandra Cisneros
This web of time–the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries–embraces every possibility. We do not exist in most of them. In some you exist and not I, while in others I do, and you do not, and yet in others both of us exist. In this… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
where I fold and unfold my left arm into November, my hair into my sister, where the black-gloved woman plays my heart like a crumpled violin, where I stand creased and lusting for paper, where I have no more dead lovers than you, where beautiful girls are always asked for directions, where… Continue reading Sabrina Orah Mark