Eternity buries itself in smaller things. How desperately I have wished for memories to be eternal, but eternity exists only insofar as it buries itself in smaller things. The photograph will exist longer than I can ever remember its being taken. Even the candle which burns exists longer than my recollection of the candle or… Continue reading Jacqueline Winter Thomas
I can’t tell you where a poem comes from, what it is, or what it is for: nor can any other. The reason I can’t tell you is that the purpose of a poem is to go past telling, to be recognized by burning. — A. R. Ammons, “A Poem is a Walk,” Temple Poetry.… Continue reading A. R. Ammons
Trees talk to each other at night. All fish are named either Lorna or Jack. Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose. Tiny bears live in drain pipes. If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky. The moon and the sun… Continue reading Raul Gutierrez
The question is how you rearrange the stars above your head, to open up unexpected paths on the ground beneath your feet. — Brian Holmes, “Guattari’s Schizoanalytic Cartographies” or “The Pathic Core at the Heart of Cybernetics,” Continental Drift.
Come with me And let us rush towards our shadows Who are in love. — Laila Kasra Afshar, from “I Said,” Riding effortlessly on a large green turtle | Persian Love Poetry. (Sep 7, 2013)
While I can’t have you, I long for you. I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee. I’d take a taxi across town to see you for ten minutes. I’d wait outside all night if I thought you would open the door in the… Continue reading Jeanette Winterson