Writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers. — Charles Bukowski Advertisements
Consume yourself, you in your flame, I in mine, and love me for the love that could not wait for you, love me for what you and I contain of blossom or stone: we will always draw life from all we did not share: the shoulder upon which a rose could find no peace, the… Continue reading Pablo Neruda
“In us, there is a river of feelings, in which every drop of water is a different feeling, and each feeling relies on all the others for its existence. To observe it, we just sit on the bank of the river and identify each feeling as it surfaces, flows by, and disappears. – Thich Nhat… Continue reading Thich Nhat Hanh
But like love the archers are blind Upon the green night, the piercing saetas leave traces of warm lily. The keel of the moon breaks through purple clouds and their quivers fill with dew. Ay, but like love the archers are blind! — Federico García Lorca, “Before The Dawn,” Poem of the Deep Song (City… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
Remember the quiet wonders. The world has more need of them than it has for warriors. — Charles de Lint, Moonheart. (Orb Books, February 15, 1994) Originally published October 1984.
I close my eyes and see a seagull in the desert, high, against unbearably blue sky. There is hope in the past. I am writing to you all the time, I am writing with both hands, day and night. — Franz Wright, “P.S.,” Walking to Martha’s Vineyard. (Knopf; Reprint edition, April 5, 2005) Originally published… Continue reading Franz Wrigh