In space in time I sitThousands of feet aboveThe sea and meditateOn solitude on loveNear all is brown and poorHouses are made of earthSun opens every doorThe city is a hearthFar all is blue and strangeThe sky looks down on snowAnd meets the mountain-rangeWhere time is light not shadowTime in the heart held stillSpace as… Continue reading May Sarton
If you lovesomeone, the water moves upfrom the well. — Jason Shinder, from “Little America,” Stupid Hope (Graywolf Press, 2009)
You get a little moody sometimes but I think that’s because you like to read. People that like to read are always a little fucked up. ― Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides (Dial Press Trade Paperback; Reprint edition, October 1, 2002) Originally published January 1, 1986.
If, when the spring comes,I am already dead,The flowers will flower in the same mannerAnd the trees will be no less green than last spring.Reality doesn’t need me. I feel great joyTo think that my death hasn’t the slightest importance. If I knew that I would die tomorrowAnd spring was due to arrive the day… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa
In poetry there is always something just about to happen that is best described as an encroachment on silence. — Norman Dubie, The Clouds of Magellan (Recursos Press, 1991)
To forget how you tasted those leggy afternoonswhen our bodies spilledlike wine across the floor, is to admit a hawk into the house.Is to wring a rag of water. When I’m in the thicketwith my smaller hungers,I don’t need to know every cave and what it stores, cooland damp, for you. I don’t needto know… Continue reading Amie Whittemore
… fear isn’t only a guide to keep us safe; it’s also a manipulative emotion that can trick us into living a boring life. — Donald Miller, A Million Miles In a Thousand Years ( Thomas Nelson Inc; 33265th edition, January 1, 2009)
The Wish to be Generous ALL that I serve will die, all my delights,the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,the silent lilies standing in the woods,the woods, the hill, the whole earth, allwill burn in man’s evil, or dwindlein its own age. Let the world bring on methe sleep of darkness without stars,… Continue reading Wendell Berry
At night my prayerslike empty bowls,rattle in the cupboardof my heart,as trains of sadnessrumble through the crossingsof my life. — Ed Block, closing lines to “Prairie Hours,” Parabola (vol. 39, no. 4, Winter 2014-2015)
I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. — Annie Dillard, from “Living Like Weasels,” Teaching a Stone to Talk (HarperCollins, New York, 2009, Kindle Edition)
The Vale of Soul-Making 