To live like a painting looked into from more than one angle at once – eye to eye with the doorway, down at the hair, up at your own dusty feet. — Jane Hirshfield, from “Works & Loves,” Poetry (January 2014)
It is nice to be without answers at the end of summer. Wind lifting leaves from branches. The moment laid down like something in childhood and forgotten, until later, when stumbled upon, we think: this is where it was lost. — Carl Adamshick, from “Loss,” Poem-A-Day, July 10, 2013
Consciousness observes and is appeased. The soul scrambles across the screes. The soul, like the square root of minus 1, is an impossibility that has its uses. — Vijay Sesahdri, from “Imaginary Number,” Poetry (February 2012)
I don’t know how to become one with you. If you’re heaven, then tell me. I will kneel to every god. If you’re hell, then tell me. I will fill the earth with sin. I don’t know how to become one with you. If you’re an invaded soil, then tell me. I will make my… Continue reading Abdulla Pashew
we reread letters the dead once sent and imagine different answers everything becomes clear once it is too late there is not enough thread of regret left to string the shards of our night — Amina Saïd, from “The Mothers.” Poems Without Borders: July 2011 issue. Translated from French by Marilyn Hacker.
I am not equal to my longing. Somewhere there should be a place the exact shape of my emptiness— there should be a place responsible for taking one back. — Jane Mead, from “Concerning the Prayer I Cannot Make.” VQR Online. Issue: Spring 1989 Volume 65 # 2, Published: December 12, 2003
I. The powers of language are the solitary ladies who sing, desolate, with this voice of mine that I hear from a distance. And far away, in the black sand, lies a girl heavy with ancestral music. Where is death itself? I have wanted clarity in light of my lack of light. Branches die in… Continue reading Alejandra Pizarnik