Whoever doesn’t live in poetry cannot survive here on earth. ― Halldór Laxness, Under the Glacier. (Vintage, March 8, 2005) Originally published 1968.
the suicide kid I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed. but all I could do was to get drunk again. worse, the bar patrons even ended up liking me. there I was trying to get pushed over the dark edge and I ended up with free drinks while somewhere else some… Continue reading Charles Bukowski
Sometimes hope (ever more distant) spreads her long branches in the wind, — Roberto Sosa, from “Tegucigalpa,” Return of the River (Curbstone Books, 2001)
… I’d like to live with you In some small town, In never-ending twilight … — Marina Tsvetaeva, from “We Shall Not Escape Hell,” Selected Poetry, trans. Elaine Feinstein (Oxford University Press, 1971)
Your dream moves summers inside my mind. — Anne Sexton, from “For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach,” The Complete Poems (Houghton Mifflin, 1981)
In Favor Of One’s Time The spent purpose of a perfectly marvellous life suddenly glimmers and leaps into flame it’s more difficult than you think to make charcoal it’s also pretty hard to remember life’s marvellous but there it is guttering choking then soaring in the mirrored room of this consciousness it’s practically a blaze… Continue reading Frank O’Hara
It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed. — Billy Collins, from “On Turning Ten,” The Art of Drowning. (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1995)