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John Keats

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days – three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.  ― John Keats, Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne. (Penguin Books; Mti edition, September 16, 2009)

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Anthology · Caribbean Culture · Caribbean Literature · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Derek Walcott

Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor, for the eternal idleness of the imagined return, for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom of tangled sheets… —  Derek Walcott, “Bleecker Street, Summer,” Collected Poems 1948-1984. All rights reserved. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1986)

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American Counterculture · American Literature · Anthology · Black Mountain Poetry · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Poetry · The Beat Generation

Robert Creeley

There is that in love which, by the syntax of, men find women and join their bodies of their minds —which wants so to acquire a continuity, a place, a demonstration that it must be one’s own sentence. — Robert Creeley, “The Sentence,” The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975 (University of Californina, 1982)a

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Confessional · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Anne Sexton

And tonight our skins, our bones, … will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, ‘My need is more desperate!’ and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out. — Anne Sexton, from “Loving the Killer,” Selected… Continue reading Anne Sexton

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Anthology · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Hungarian Culture · Hungarian Literature · Passage · Poetry · Reference

József Tornai

  I’ll write my arm out in stars, my legs in blood-boltered ash trees, so that words           may be transmogrified into all my organs                               one after another                               but then                       I’ll pull the pen from my hand,            and dip it into the river’s icy form, just as burning, molten meteors                         … Continue reading József Tornai

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