The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? — Oscar Wilde, ”De Profundis,” Originally published: 1905. De Profundis and Other… Continue reading Oscar Wilde
somewhere behind the napes, armorial backbone. ripeness that goes on and on. a kayak, waist-deep. in blood is where the acorn grows. which means the world is ravenous. i want to eat my cake and have it. lover, am i not your invention? — Uche Nduka, “Somewhere Behind the Napes,” Overpassbooks January 15, 2013
Cussing doesn’t come from a lack of vocabulary – I know all the other words. None of them speak the same language that my fucking heart does. — Anis Mojgani
There are threads of old sound heard over and over phrases of Shakespeare or Mozart the slender wands of the auroras playing out from them into dark time the passing of a few migrants high in the night far from the ancient flocks far from the rest of the words far from the instruments —… Continue reading W.S. Merwin
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy; And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. And you would watch with serenity through the… Continue reading Kahlil Gibran
If the distance between us were as tangible as the ice that I feel, you would see me sliding toward you, full of joy at having found you, sorrow at having been gone so long. — Stephen Dobyns, from “Absence,” Velocities: New and Selected Poems 1966-1992 (Penguin Books, 1994)
Sometimes she sat and let her mind go blank and her eyes go out of focus, so that she watched the slow, jerky movements of the motes that floated across her pupils. They amazed her as a child. Now she saw them as a reflection of how she moved, floating listlessly through the world, occasionally… Continue reading Robert Goolrick,
What I’m looking for may not be there. What you’re looking for may not be me. What I’m looking for may not be there. What you’re looking for may not be me. I’m listening for the return of that sound I heard in the woods just now, that silvery sound that seemed to call not… Continue reading Maureen N. McLane
Societies never know it, but the war of an artist with his society is a lover’s war, and he does, at his best, what lovers do, which is to reveal the beloved to himself and, with that revelation, to make freedom real. — James Baldwin, “The Creative Process,” Creative America. (The National Cultural Center /… Continue reading James Baldwin
Is she more apparent because she is not anymore forever? Is her whiteness more white because she was the color of pale honey? A smokestack making the sky more visible. A dead woman filling the whole world. Michiko said, “The roses you gave me kept me awake with the sound of their petals falling. —… Continue reading Jack Gilbert
The Vale of Soul-Making 