Give me a thing that says nothing. The wind, for instance, A wisdom that comes from ten thousand miles to the west. The trees, for instance, stenographers Of every sentence it isn’t able to utter. The grass that assembles them all in its green pages. — Charles Wright, from “26,” Littlefoot: A… Continue reading Charles Wright
When what you write about is what you see, what do you write about when it’s dark? — Charles Wright, from “32,” Littlefoot: A Poem (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)
The morning is almost silent and cannot declare itself. / Therefore, I say unto it, / you are the never-boring miracle / Of sunlight and scrappy cloud, / The absence of rain when rain is absent, / as it is / This morning, green with its wonderment, — Charles Wright, from “23,” Littlefoot: A Poem… Continue reading Charles Wright
There is no greater sorrow then to recall our times of joy in wretchedness. ― Dante Alighieri, Inferno (The Divine Comedy). (Modern Library, December 9, 2003) Originally 1320.
The Beyond is merely beyond, A melancholy place of failed and fallen stars. — Mark Strand, from “XLII,” Dark Harbor: A Poem (Alfred A. Knopf, 1994)
I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist. — Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire: A Poem in Four Cantos (Putnam, 1962)
When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude; — William Wordsworth, from “The Prelude.” Norton; 1st edition (1979) Originally published 1800.