And to live only once– What if that’s not enough? — Gregory Orr, from “All the different books you read.,” Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved. (Copper Canyon Press; First Edition edition, September 1, 2005) Advertisements
Silence reveals itself only to itself. Only when we enter as nothing and stay as nothing, will silence open its secret. ― Adyashanti, Emptiness Dancing. (Sounds True; 2nd edition, May 1, 2006) Orriginally published 2004.
Full Moon Good God! What did I dream last night? I dreamt I was the moon. I woke and found myself still asleep. It was like this: my face misted up from inside And I came and went at will through a little peephole. I had no voice, no mouth, nothing to express my trouble,… Continue reading Alice Oswald
The strangeness of Time. Not in its passing, which can seem infinite, like a tunnel whose end you can’t see, whose beginning you’ve forgotten, but in the sudden realization that something finite, has passed, and is irretrievable. — Joyce Carol Oates, Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang (Dutton, 1993)
Poetry– but what sort of thing is poetry? More than one shaky answer has been given to this question. But I do not know and do not know and clutch on to it, as to a saving bannister. — Wislawa Szymborska, from “Some Like Poetry,” The New Yorker: October 21, 1996 Issue.
I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all alone. — Henri Barbusse, THE INFERNO ** UNDER FIRE ** LIGHT (Timeless Wisdom Collection) Business… Continue reading Henri Barbusse
A sudden [b]reeze sweeps through the vacant lots, scattering leaves And cellophane, the miscellaneous detritus of a life. Like scraps of paper carried by the breeze from home To here, and then a figure walking towards me Across an open field, coming from the vast distance Things tend towards, they come at last to me:… Continue reading John Koethe