is it worse if we invented sadness or if it was here all along waiting for the earth to grow a creature capable of detecting it — Kimmy Walters, from “Build A Little Shrine For The Dead,” Killer. (Bottlecap Press 2016)
Nothing is more fleeting than the external form, which withers and alters like the flowers of the field at the appearance of autumn. — Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose. (Everyman’s Library; First Edition edition September 26, 2006) Originally published 1980.
The moon, emerging, Floats where clouds are not; Wind rises, Strikes the purity of night, Stars compete In trembling flickers, The Milky Way is empty, Clear, and bright. Old trees’ sparse shadows Intersperse. Scared birds cut off their Noises lingering. This autumn I am rapt In what’s already awry, While crickets campaign Again at night.… Continue reading Liu Ch’ang
These are the days that must happen to you. — Walt Whitman, from “Song of the Open Road,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.
I write a poem and delude myself that I’ve escaped sadness. I merely make it rhythmic, lighter perhaps. I do my best to make it beautiful, bearable, and for that reasonless reason I cry some more. — Adélia Prado, from “A Good Cause,” The Alphabet in the Park: Selected Poems (Wesleyan, 1990)
A brutal, relentless self-analysis lies at the heart of all despair. ― Marty Rubin
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; — W.B. Yeats, from “When You Are Old,” The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats. Edited by Richard J. Finneran, (Scribner, 1989)