The Troubadours Etc. Just for this evening, let’s not mock them. Not their curtsies or cross-garters or ever-recurring pepper trees in their gardens promising, promising. At least they had ideas about love. All day we’ve driven past cornfields, past cows poking their heads through metal contraptions to eat. We’ve followed West 84, and what else?… Continue reading Mary Szybist
I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake. In dreams I have achieved everything. — Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet.… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa
Sometimes I go to bed scared of not coming through, the night full of the radiant falling into themselves, fragments curving back, a drop of sweat, a single pulse, felt as they were moments ago. — Julie Suk, from “The Night is Full of Us,” Lie Down with Me: New and Selected Poems. (Autumn House,… Continue reading Julie Suk
If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing. ― Samuel Beckett, Molloy. (Grove Press, January 12, 1994) Originally published 1951.
There’s such pleasure sitting here, looking And listening at the same time: materiality is the point, Texture, coarseness, stuff—call it what you will. You put some clay or words into the furnace and wait For what emerges from the fire once it’s died down. —John Koethe, from “The Japanese Aesthetic,” The Swimmer: Poems (Farrar, Straus,… Continue reading John Koethe
In the old days he would not have worried, but the fighting part of him was tired now, along with the other part, and he was alone in all of this now and he lay on the big, wide, old bed and could neither read nor sleep. — Ernest Hemingway, To Have and Have Not.… Continue reading Ernest Hemingway
A time comes when death doesn’t help. A time comes when life is an order. Just life, without any escapes. — Carlos Drummond de Andrade, “Your Shoulders Hold Up the World,” The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (translated by Mark Strand)