[P]hilosophy is the art of masking inner torments. — Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair. (University Of Chicago Press,1996) Originally published 1933.
Wasp spirit journeying through the barn-roof rays, spark and dull and spark, lift me, I am odor of storage, lift me, I am belly of cornmeal, lift me, all things high, wild berry jelly held to the light, lift me from this knot- hole heart and spiral paring of the apple dark. — Cal Bedient,… Continue reading Cal Bedient
Sometimes I see me dead in the rain. — J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey. (Little, Brown and Company; 1st edition, January 30, 1961)
It’s sunny outside. It’s only a sun Yet men look at it and sing. I don’t know about the sun. I know about the melody of angels and the heated sermon of the last wind. I know how to scream until dawn when death settles naked on my shadow. I cry beneath my name. I… Continue reading Alejandra Pizarnik
If you had really loved something, wouldn’t a little bit of it always linger? — Susan Orlean, The Orchid Thief (Random House, 1998)
In a room as big as loneliness my heart which is as big as love looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase at the sapling you planted in our garden and the song of canaries which sing to the size of a window. — Forough… Continue reading Forough Farrokhzad
My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I’m not a sad man, and I don’t believe I sadden anyone else. In other words, the fact that I don’t put my philosophy into practice saves me from its evil spell, or, rather, my faith in the human race is stronger then my intellectual analysis of it; there… Continue reading Antonio Machado
I am sorry the time is passing so slowly. I am sorry, birds, for not mentioning you again until the end. My fifth grade teacher said comets are angels. You can determine the exact makeup of a comet by spectrographic analysis. An X ray of this poem would reveal dark spots on its heart. It… Continue reading Richard Jackson
There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature. ― Lawrence Durrell, Justine. (Penguin; Reprint edition, July 12, 1991) Originally published 1957.
Beneath My Hands Beneath my hands your small breasts are the upturned bellies of breathing fallen sparrows. Wherever you move I hear the sounds of closing wings of falling wings. I am speechless because you have fallen beside me because your eyelashes are the spines of tiny fragile animals. I dread the time when your… Continue reading Leonard Cohen