There always was a relationship between poet and place. Placeless poetry, existing in the non-geography of ideas, is a modern invention and not a very fortunate one. — Archibald MacLeish, epigraph for A New Geography of Poets, ed. Edward Field, Gerald Locklin, and Charles Stetler (The University of Arkansas Press, 1992)
That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country… Continue reading Ray Bradbury
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright tendrils and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge. —William Carlos Williams, “Epitaph,” The Collected Poems, Vol. 1: 1909-1939. (New Directions; Reprint edition September 17, 1991) Originally published 1951.
The Vale of Soul-Making 