Marty McConnell
The dustin my lungs, Knock itout of me. — Marty McConnell, from “Elegy” Court Green 12 (2015)
Category: Fragment
Charles Wright
Time is the villain in most tales, and here, too,Lowering its stiff body into the water.Its landscape is the resurrection of the word,No end of it, the petals of wreckage in everything. —Charles Wright, from “The Southern Cross,” The Southern Cross (Random House, 1981)
Rainer Maria Rilke
I am alone but not alone enough to make every moment holy. — Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God (Riverhead Hardcover; 2nd prt. Edition, March 19, 1996) Originally published April 1, 1905.
Charles Wright
As always, silence will have the last word, — Charles Wright, from “The Southern Cross,” The Southern Cross (Random House, 1981)
May Sarton
In space in time I sitThousands of feet aboveThe sea and meditateOn solitude on loveNear all is brown and poorHouses are made of earthSun opens every doorThe city is a hearthFar all is blue and strangeThe sky looks down on snowAnd meets the mountain-rangeWhere time is light not shadowTime in the heart held stillSpace as… Continue reading May Sarton
Jason Shinder
If you lovesomeone, the water moves upfrom the well. — Jason Shinder, from “Little America,” Stupid Hope (Graywolf Press, 2009)
Louise Bogan
I burned my life, that I might findA passion wholly of the mind, — Louise Bogan, from “The Alchemist,” Body of This Death (Robert M. McBride, 1923)
Amie Whittemore
To forget how you tasted those leggy afternoonswhen our bodies spilledlike wine across the floor, is to admit a hawk into the house.Is to wring a rag of water. When I’m in the thicketwith my smaller hungers,I don’t need to know every cave and what it stores, cooland damp, for you. I don’t needto know… Continue reading Amie Whittemore
Ed Block
At night my prayerslike empty bowls,rattle in the cupboardof my heart,as trains of sadnessrumble through the crossingsof my life. — Ed Block, closing lines to “Prairie Hours,” Parabola (vol. 39, no. 4, Winter 2014-2015)
Vera Pavlova
when you are aloneyour letters become longeryour poems shorter — Vera Pavlova, from “13″ of “22 Haiku,” Album for the Young (and Old): Poems, trans. Steven Seymour ( Alfred A. Knopf, 2017)
The Vale of Soul-Making 