The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. — Paul Celan, from “The Meridian,” Paul Celan: Selections. (University of California Press; 1st edition, March 14, 2005) Advertisements
Everything that’s ever happened has left its little wound. — Sarah Manguso, Ongoingness: The End of a Diary (Graywolf Press 2015)
I am a weak, ephemeral creature made of mud and dream. But I feel all the powers of the universe whirling within me. — Nikos Kazantzakis, The Saviors of God: Spiritual Exercises (Simon and Schuster, 1960)
I empty myself with light Until I become morning. — Charles Wright, from “33,” Littlefoot: A Poem (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)
I wonder why our life must quiver between beauty and guilt, consummation and sadness, desire and regret, immortality and tattered moments unknowable, truth and beautiful meaningful lies. – Jack Kerouac, Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954 (Viking Adult, 2004)
I remember rocks you pick up outside that, once inside, you wonder why. —Joe Brainard, from “I Remember,” The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard. (Library of America March 29, 2012) Ron Padgett (Editor), Paul Auster (Foreword).
If only you would kiss me. Press your lips to mine like a searing iron. Wrap me in your arms as if you were a monarch claiming a kingdom. Hold me close until I warm through to the core. Do this and I promise to melt into you, no longer a cold and frozen figure… Continue reading Richelle E. Goodrich