Closing the book, I find I have left my head inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound, words adjusting themselves to their meaning. Long passages open at successive pages. An echo, continuous from the title onward, hums behind me. From in here the world… Continue reading William Stafford
No permanence is ours; we are a wave That flows to fit whatever form it finds: Through day or night, cathedral or the cave We pass forever, craving form that binds. – Hermann Hesse, from “Lament,” The Glass Bead Game: A Novel. (Picador; First edition, December 6, 2002) Originally published 1943.
But when the light hits us from behind the granite cliffs, all I can muster is to lie with you on the monastery floor, guide your fingers to the door- ways of my weary heart, so you can feel it too– the ocean that travels with me; how it gathers and breaks, gathers and breaks;… Continue reading Tishani Doshi
Move through transformation, out and in. What is the deepest loss that you have suffered? If drinking is bitter, change yourself to wine. In this immeasurable darkness, be the power that rounds your senses in their magic ring, the sense of their mysterious encounter. And if the earthly no longer knows your name, whisper to… Continue reading Rainer Maria Rilke
Onset Watching that frenzy of insects above the bush of white flowers, bush I see everywhere on hill after hill, all I can think of is how terrifying spring is, in its tireless, mindless replications. Everywhere emergence: seed case, chrysalis, uterus, endless manufacturing. And the wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups in the grocery, lately I… Continue reading Kim Addonizio
I was released from forms, from the perpendiculars, straight lines, blocks, boxes, binds of thought into the hues, shadings, rises, flowing bends and blends of sight … in nature there are few sharp lines. —A. R. Ammons, from “Corsons Inlet,” The Selected Poems: Expanded Edition (W. W. Norton and Co., 1986)
For that’s what poetry is–a way to live through time And sometimes, just for a while, to bring it back. — John Koethe, from “Ninety-Fifth Street,” Walking Backwards: Poems 1966–2016 (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2018)