Haruki Murakami
Gazing at the rain, I consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone cry for me. — Haruki Murakami, Dance, Dance, Dance (The Rat #4) Vintage Books (December 1, 2003)
Month: December 2017
Mary Oliver
On winter’s margin, see the small birds now With half-forged memories come flocking home To gardens famous for their charity. The green globe’s broken; vines like tangled veins Hang at the entrance to the silent wood. With half a loaf, I am the prince of crumbs; By snow’s down, the birds amassed will sing Like… Continue reading Mary Oliver
Michael Lee
This morning I awoke clutching your name with such reckless devotion that it turned to dust. — Michael Lee, from “The Addict, a Magician” (Rustbelt 2013) Button Poetry
Denis Johnson
… inside me I carry a black night you climb through like the moon in which the Asians see a woman: higher and smaller, [Love], farther and farther away, and nothing will ever bring you back. And nothing will ever get rid of you. — Denis Johnson, from “The Woman in the Moon,” The Incognito… Continue reading Denis Johnson
Martin Luther
Pray, and let God worry. ― Martin Luther (10 November 1483 – 18 February 1546)
Jack Gilber
Naked Except for the Jewelry “And,” she said, “you must talk no more about ecstasy. It is loneliness.” The woman wandered about picking up her shoes and silks. “You said you loved me,” the man said. “We tell lies,” she said, brushing her wonderful hair, naked except for the jewelry. “We try to believe.” “you… Continue reading Jack Gilber
Albert Camus
I would listen to my heartbeat. I couldn’t imagine that this sound which had been with me for so long could ever stop. — Albert Camus, The Stranger. (Vintage, March 13, 1989) Originally published 1942.
Fernando Pessoa
Everything’s like that, more or less. The heart moves in jolts. Living means not meeting up with yourself. At the end of it all, if I’m tired, I’ll sleep. But I’d like to meet you and for us to speak. I’m sure we’d get along well, you and I. But if we don’t meet, I’ll… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa
Wallace Stevens
You can compose poetry in whatever form you like. If it seems a seventeenth-centruy habit to begin lines with capital letters, you can go in for the liquid transitions of greater simplicity; and so on. It is not that nobody cares. It matters immensely. The slightest sound matters. The most momentary rhythm matters. You can… Continue reading Wallace Stevens
Buddy Wakefield
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself. Make love to me like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did. Go slow. I’m new to this. But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping. I have realized that the moon… Continue reading Buddy Wakefield
The Vale of Soul-Making 