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Richard Jackson

Sometimes it seems that all our words, even those for love,are written in another language. And yet they still arrive,distant, full of their own silences which may be whatallows us to invent another story, what saves us. What isthe word for the kind of love the woman shows now?A word that contains the whole story… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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Contemporary · Excerpt · Lyric Essay · Lyrical Prose · Online Anthology · Online Magazine · Passage · Periodical · Poetry · Polish Culture · Polish Literature · Prose Poetry

Anna Kamieńska

He’s freed from his loneliness by the word. Isn’t that the point of poetry? Breaking through the walls of solitude. Poetry is the great S.O.S. of loneliness. —  Anna Kamieńska, from “Industrious Amazement: A Notebook,” Poetry; Mar2011, Vol. 197 Issue 6, p503

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry · Uncategorized

Theodore Roethke

I feel her presence in the common day,In that slow dark that widens every eye.She moves as water moves, and comes to me,Stayed by what was, and pulled by what would be. —Theodore Roethke, from “She,” Words for the Wind: The Collected Verse of Theodore Roethke (Doubleday, 1958)

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Excerpt · Fragment · Modernism · Passage · Poetry

Sylvia Plath

I am inhabited by a cry.Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to love.I am terrified by this dark thingThat sleeps in me;All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. — Sylvia Plath, from “Elm,” Ariel. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Reprint edition February 3, 1999) Originally published 1965.

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British Culture · Classic · Collection · English Literature · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Philip Larkin

Sad Steps Groping back to bed after a pissI part thick curtains, and am startled by   The rapid clouds, the moon’s cleanliness. Four o’clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie   Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.   There’s something laughable about this, The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow   Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart   (Stone-coloured light… Continue reading Philip Larkin

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