What would grace feel like, finally? Like the air around a wondrous sentence spoken into the dark as you wait for another sentence to follow? — Holly Welker, from “Sentence,” Image: Art, Faith, Mystery (no. 64, Winter 2009-2010) Advertisements
When God demanded light, he didn’t banish darkness. Instead he invented ebony and crows and that small mole on your left cheekbone. — Linda Pastan, from “Why Are Your Poems So Dark?,” Poetry (August 2003)
We want to hear someone say, “I give you my heart,” meaning, “summer and winter,” meaning, “all my time in this world,” and to imagine what it is like, dying of heartbreak, a subtle, yet extravagant death, nothing to do with the blood supply, or lack of it, that kills us. — Lisel Mueller, from… Continue reading Lisel Mueller
The question is how you rearrange the stars above your head, to open up unexpected paths on the ground beneath your feet. — Brian Holmes, “Guattari’s Schizoanalytic Cartographies” or “The Pathic Core at the Heart of Cybernetics,” Continental Drift.
Then the bees come, more than you’d ever expect, whirring from sprig to sprig with such meticulous and random urgency you might think they understand each blossom begins to die upon its opening which has been hurried along by your own desire. — Allen Braden, from “Lilacs and Desires,” Louisiana Literature (vol. 34, no. 1,… Continue reading Allen Braden
These dogwood branches on the windowsill—they’re my touch, stemming freshly. In my spell I am suspended, seamed into soft-drawn letters I’ve just learned. Is this the floating feeling when you’ve come into love? — Alice Wright, from “Photograph: Alice Allgood Cooper on Her Wedding Trip,” ecotone (Spring/Summer 2017)
Just ahead of dawn, the wall was like a silken drape near a silver light: keeping nothing out, keeping nothing in. — Cindy St. Onge, from “Resurrection (An Aubade),” Dappled Things (10.3, SS. Peter and Paul, 2015.)