Sylvia Plath
Kiss me, and you will see how important I am. ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. (Anchor; Unabridged edition October 17, 2000)
Month: August 2019
Don McKay
Moon, night after night rehearsing shades of pause and spill, sifting into reed beds, silvering the fine hairs of your arms, making rhythm out of light and nothing, making months. What have I ever made of life or it of me? — Don McKay, from “Lift,” Angular Unconformity: Collected Poems 1970-2014 (Icehouse Poetry, 2014)
Mary Wollstonecraft
I like to see your eyes praise me and, during such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words. ― Mary Wollstonecraft
W.S. Merwin
Place On the last day of the world I would want to plant a tree what for not the fruit the tree that bears the fruit is not the one that was planted I want the tree that stands in the earth for the first time with the sun already going down and the water… Continue reading W.S. Merwin
Jean-Paul Sartre
I am free. I haven’t a single reason for living left. — Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea. (New Directions Publishing Corporation January 1, 1975) Originally published 1938.
Jean Cocteau
It’s time. You must come down Once more to help me, head First, through the glass Without blemishing your eyes, the emptiness, the island Where the fireplace sings. Chuck your sword, Slow down mad star. Why don’t I have your body? Oh, If only we had your hips Wrapped in stone, wicked Beast of the… Continue reading Jean Cocteau
Jack Kerouac
The silence is so intense that you can hear your own blood roar in your ears but louder than that by far is the mysterious roar which I always identify with the roaring of the diamond wisdom, the mysterious roar of silence itself, which is a great Shhhh reminding you of something you’ve seemed to… Continue reading Jack Kerouac
Charles Wright
When what you write about is what you see, what do you write about when it’s dark? — Charles Wright, from “32,” Littlefoot: A Poem (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)
Anaïs Nin
Passion gives me moments of wholeness. — Anaïs Nin
Orrick Johns
They are unholy who are born To love wild plum at night, Who once have passed it on a road Glimmering and white. It is as though the darkness had Speech of silver words, Or as though a cloud of stars Perched like ghostly birds. They are unpitied from their birth And homeless in men’s… Continue reading Orrick Johns
The Vale of Soul-Making 