And to live only once– What if that’s not enough? — Gregory Orr, from “All the different books you read.,” Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved. (Copper Canyon Press; First Edition edition, September 1, 2005) Advertisements
Full Moon Good God! What did I dream last night? I dreamt I was the moon. I woke and found myself still asleep. It was like this: my face misted up from inside And I came and went at will through a little peephole. I had no voice, no mouth, nothing to express my trouble,… Continue reading Alice Oswald
Stumble, pretend you’re dead. Just for me, pretend you can be hurt by something so simple as a failed emotion. Pretend you have seen loss. — Pier Giorgio di Cicco, from “I Want You to See,” Women We Never See Again (Ottawa: Borealis Press, 1984)
Poetry– but what sort of thing is poetry? More than one shaky answer has been given to this question. But I do not know and do not know and clutch on to it, as to a saving bannister. — Wislawa Szymborska, from “Some Like Poetry,” The New Yorker: October 21, 1996 Issue.
A sudden [b]reeze sweeps through the vacant lots, scattering leaves And cellophane, the miscellaneous detritus of a life. Like scraps of paper carried by the breeze from home To here, and then a figure walking towards me Across an open field, coming from the vast distance Things tend towards, they come at last to me:… Continue reading John Koethe
And every moment is a new and shocking Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm. — T. S. Eliot, from “East Coker” of the “Four Quartets,” The Complete Poems & Plays of T.S.Eliot (Faber & Faber Poetry, 2004)
You gather things to you like an old road. You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices. I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated that had been sleeping in your soul. —Pablo Neruda, from “Your Breast Is Enough,” Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Translated by W. S. Merwin. (Penguin Classics;… Continue reading Pablo Neruda