Sometimes you linger days upon a word, a single, uncontaminated drop of sound; for days it trembles, liquid to the mind, then falls: mere denotation dimming the undertow of language. — John Burnside, from “Like me, you sometimes waken,” Common Knowledge (Cape Poetry 1991)
De Humani Corporis Fabrica after Vesalius I know the names of almost nothing not the bone between my elbow and my wrist that sometimes aches from breaking years ago and not the plumb line from the pelvis to the knee less ache than hum where in my nineteenth year a blade slit through nerves and… Continue reading John Burnside
Being in love is something like poetry. Certainly, you can analyze and expound its various senses and intentions, but there is always something left over, mysteriously hovering between music and meaning. — Muriel Spark
The last thing he ever said to me was, “Just always be waiting for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing.” — J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan. Henry Holt and Co. (BYR); 100 Anv edition October 1, 2003) Originally published 1911.
So I will lie beside you here unnamed until my hands recover from your skin. — John Burnside , from “De Humani Corporis Fabrica,” The Good Neighbour (Cape, 2005)
To die will be an awfully big adventure. ― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan. (Henry Holt and Co. (BYR); 100 Anv edition October 1, 2003) Originally published 1911.
The illimitable, silent, never-resting thing called Time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like an all-embracing ocean-tide, on which we and all the Universe swim like exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are not: this is forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb – for we have no work to speak… Continue reading Thomas Carlyle