Isn’t longing reason enough? — Alexandra Smyth, from “Don’t Tell Me You Don’t Love Me,” Gravel (April 2016) Advertisements
And it happens that time is a lyric disappointment: I am here, you are here as in a dream. No less to separate us than us. — Maya Catherine Popa, from “After a Long Separation, Nothing Can Be Separate,” Field (no. 96, Spring 2017)
Sometimes the world seems So far away, so Distant from me, That I find myself Using words as a lens To observe it— To bring it into focus And pull it close. — Gregory Orr, from “Ode to Words,” The American Poetry Review (vol. 45, no. 4, July/August 2016)
Nothing will come of nothing, someone once said. The first poem I wrote, I wrote for a girl, knowing for certain what I meant. More intertwining than a Celtic knot. More beseeching than a forget-me-not. More far-reaching and daring, more engaged with the world. Can a man build a tower out of air alone? He… Continue reading James Arthur
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
A blue sheen radiates from my clothes. Midwinter. Jangling tambourines of ice. I close my eyes. There is a soundless world there is a crack where dead people are smuggled across the border. — Tomas Tranströmer, “Midwinter,” Poetry International 2012. Translation: 2002, Robin Fulton.
To perceive a landscape is therefore to carry out an act of remembrance, and remembering is not so much a matter of calling up an internal image, stored in the mind, as of engaging perceptually with an environment that is itself pregnant with the past. — Tim Ingold, from “The Temporality of the Landscape,” World… Continue reading Tim Ingold