The moon will never lie to anyone. Be like the moon. No one hates the moon or wants to kill it. The moon does not take antidepressants and never gets sent to prison. The moon never shot a guy in the face and ran away. The moon has been around a long time and has… Continue reading Henry Rollins
I’m saying I know all about you, whoever you are, it’s spring and it’s starting again, the longing that begins, and begins, and begins. — Kim Addonizio, from “Onset,” Tell Me. (BOA Editions Ltd.; First Edition edition July 1, 2000)
A poem is nonetheless present from the conception, from the first germ of it crossing the mind—it must be scratched for and exhumed. There is an element of timelessness. The leading atomic scientist in Australia agreed with me the other day that time does not really exist. The finished poem is present before it is… Continue reading Robert Graves
Only if I move my arm a certain way,it comes back.Or the way the light bends in the treesthis time of year,so a scrap of sorrow, like a bird, lights on the heart.I carry this in my body, seedin an unswept corner, husk-encowled and seeming safe.But they guard me, these small pains,from growing sureof myself… Continue reading Jane Hirshfield
When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good… Continue reading Ernest Hemingway
Those of us who make up poemsHave agreed not to say what the pain is. — Robert Bly, from “The Greek Ships,” My Sentence was a Thousand Years of Joy. (Harper Perennial; Reprint edition May 2, 2006)
She was breathing deeply, she forgot the cold, the weight of beings, the insane or static life, the long anguish of living or dying. After so many years running from fear, fleeing crazily, uselessly, she was finally coming to a halt. At the same time she seemed to be recovering her roots, and the sap… Continue reading Albert Camus
I bring you with reverent handsThe books of my numberless dreams. — W.B. Yeats, from “A Poet to His Beloved,” The Wind Among the Reeds. (Woodstock Books September 1994) Originally published December 1899.
I like the dark part of the night, after midnight and before four-thirty, when it’s hollow, when ceilings are harder and farther away. Then I can breathe, and can think while others are sleeping, in a way can stop time, can have it so – this has always been my dream – so that while… Continue reading Dave Eggers
Exercise First forget what time it isfor an hourdo it regularly every day then forget what day of the week it isdo this regularly for a weekthen forget what country you are inand practice doing it in companyfor a weekthen do them togetherfor a weekwith as few breaks as possible follow these by forgetting how… Continue reading W.S. Merwin
The Vale of Soul-Making 