You start by writing to live. You end by writing so as not to die. ―Carlos Fuentes Advertisements
The endless corridors of memory, the doors that open into an empty room where all the summers have come to rot — Octavio Paz, from “Sunstone,” World Poetry: An Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time, ed. Katharine Washburn, John S. Major and Clifton Fadiman (W. W. Norton & Co., 2000)
I am where I was: I walk behind the murmur, footsteps within me, heard with my eyes, the murmur is in the mind, I am my footsteps, I hear the voices that I think, the voices that think me as as I think them. I am the shadow my words cast. — Octavio Paz,… Continue reading Octavio Paz
your mouth tastes/ like poisoned time — Octavio Paz, from “Sunstone,” Octavio Paz, The Collected Poems, 1957-1987. Edited and translated by Eliot Weinberger. (New Directions, April 17, 1991) Originally published 1987.
Life leaves through the gate of an ache, where you are, a vanishing landscape. Do I dare it back? — Lorna Dee Cervantes, from “Hotel,” From the Cables of Genocide: Poems on Love and Hunger (1991)
I’m burning like the white ring around the moon. “A witch’s moon,” dijo mi abuela. The schools call it “a reflection of ice crystals.” It’s a storm brewing in the cauldron of the sky. I’m in love — Lorna Dee Cervantes, from “The Body As Braille,” Emplumada. (University of Pittsburgh Press; 1 edition, December 31,… Continue reading Lorna Dee Cervantes
Bring me a drink. I need to think a little. Paper. Pen. And I could use the stink of a good cigar–even though the sun’s out. The grackles in the trees. The grackles inside my heart. Broken feathers and stiff wings. I could jump. But I don’t. You could kill me. But you won’t. The… Continue reading Sandra Cisneros