You start by writing to live. You end by writing so as not to die. ―Carlos Fuentes
Letter [December to Persephone] Am I the only one to notice the soft layer of haze above snow? You say you see butterflies in the skeleton pelvis, well, what about the larger hand of the clock? Or a cauldron for boiling water? Did you, do you ever stop falling? I repeat your name … Continue reading Rachel Zucker
Let us forget, with generosity, those who cannot love us. — Pablo Neruda
Moonlight on the water showed it vivid against the sky. Further back, she was watching me. She began to sing a song. Worn out by love, by terror, I knew her voice was creating the secret half of the world. —Diana Bellessi, from “Pursuit of the Dream,” Nobody Gets in Here With Words, The Twins,… Continue reading Diana Bellessi
His sadness was of the kind that is patient and without hope. ― William Maxwell, So Long, See You Tomorrow. (Harvill Pr, May 1998) Originally published 1979.
Waters, hypnotic, long after moonset, murmur Under your window, and Time Is only a shade on the underside of the beech-leaf Which, upward, reflects a tiny refulgence of stars. What can you dream to make Time real again? I have read in a book that dream is the mother of memory, And if there’s no… Continue reading Robert Penn Warren
All absence lives in the night. — Alejandra Pizarnik, from “untitled,” Uncollected Poems (1962–1972), translated by Cole Heinowitz (Jacket2.org, Feb 23, 2014)
The mind can’t sleep, can only lie awake and gorge, listening to the snow gather as for some final assault. It wishes Chekhov were here to minister something – three drops of valerian, a glass of rose water – anything, it wouldn’t matter. The mind would like to get out of here onto the snow.… Continue reading Raymond Carver
It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur. ― Wallace Stevens, Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose. (intage; Revised edition, February 19, 1990) Originally published 1957.
Singing accurately So that the notes mount straight up out of the well of Dim noon and rival the tiny, sparkling yellow flowers Growing around the bring of the quarry, encapsulates The different weights of things. But it isn’t enough To just go on singing. — John Ashbery, from ‘Syringa” The Vintage Book… Continue reading John Ashbery