Dwelling always in an in-between realm, between eras of the imagination, there exists a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagined are one. — Wallace Stevens, Collected Poetry and Prose (Library of America, October 1, 1997)
And the loneliest people above all contribute most to commonality. I have said before that in this vast melody of life, some learn more, some less; therefore, in this big orchestra, everyone has his own role. The one who can perceive the entire melody is at the same time the loneliest and the closest to… Continue reading Rainer Maria Rilke
The best definition of true imagination is that it is the sum of our faculties. Poetry is the scholar’s art. The acute intelligence of the imagination, the illimitable resources of its memory, its power to possess the moment it perceives — if we were speaking of light itself, and thinking of the relationship between objects… Continue reading Wallace Stevens
I would like to sing someone to sleep,to sit beside someone and be there.I would like to rock you and sing softlyand go with you to and from sleep.I would like to be the one in the housewho knew: The night was cold.And I would like to listen in and listen outinto you, into the… Continue reading Rainer Maria Rilke
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spentIf the unheard, unspokenWord is unspoken, unheard;Still is the spoken word, the Word unheard,The Word without a word, the Word withinThe world and for the world;And the light shone in the darkness andAgainst the Word the unstilled world still whirledAbout the center of the… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
What is meant by ‘reality’? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable—now to be found in a dusty road, now in a scrap of newspaper in the street, now a daffodil in the sun. It lights up a group in a room and stamps some casual saying. It overwhelms one walking home… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
…If we surrendered to earth’s intelligencewe could rise up rooted, like trees. Instead we entangle ourselvesin knots of our own makingand struggle, lonely and confused. So like children, we begin again… to fall,patiently to trust our heaviness.Even a bird has to do thatbefore he can fly. ― Rainer Maria Rilke, from “How Sure Gravity’s Law,”… Continue reading Rainer Maria Rilke
Because I know that time is always timeAnd place is always and only placeAnd what is actual is actual only for one timeAnd only for one placeI rejoice that things are as they are andI renounce the blessèd faceAnd renounce the voiceBecause I cannot hope to turn againConsequently I rejoice, having to construct somethingUpon which… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
Portrait of the Author The birches are mad with green pointsthe wood’s edge is burning with their green,burning, seething—No, no, no.The birches are opening their leaves oneby one. Their delicate leaves unfold coldand separate, one by one. Slender tasselshang swaying from the delicate branch tips—Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.Black is split… Continue reading William Carlos Williams
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. — T.S. Eliot, from “La Figlia che Piange,” quoted in The Hyacinth Girl: T.S. Eliot’s Hidden Muse by Lyndall Gordon (Virago Press, 2022)
The Vale of Soul-Making 