I am in my remembering. — Seán Ó Coileáin, from “The Ruins of Timoleague Abbey,” Poetry (vol. CCV, no. 2, November 2014)
If you stand there long enough the air will thicken with dusk and dust and exhaust and finally with a starless dark. The day will become something it’s never been before, something for which I have no name. — Philip Levine, from “How to Get There,” Poetry (February 2012)
Calm down, my Sorrow, we must move with care. / You called for evening; it descends, it’s here. — Charles Baudelaire, “Meditation,” trans, Robert Lowell, Poetry (September 1961)
A poem in a difficult time is beautiful flowers in a cemetery. — Mahmoud Darwish, from “To A Young Poet,” Poetry (March 2010)
The past is a terrifying place. Why would anyone choose to live there? Don’t forget me, they say, the ghosts expulsed by dawn have ceased to phosphoresce. It is not crucial that I write but that I record a few of these atypical migrations of the human soul. Yes, there is one I recognize only… Continue reading D. A. Powell
Every time I kiss you After a long separation I feel I am putting a hurried love letter In a red mailbox. — Nizar Qabbani, “Every Time I Kiss You,” Arabic Poetry: http://www.adab.com/en Modern Arabic Poetry >> Nizar Qabbani. Poem No.: 336.
Ode, Aubade And the morning, too, falters, struggles to assert itself, burn through the errant fog, the pines, scorch the whole grove of trees and crooked streetlamps. Your body’s turning, turning beside me in my bed’s— sprawl? Badlands? You sigh on my neck. Startled, the crick and sob buried inside it like a pulsar behind… Continue reading Greg Wrenn