I dream through a wordless, familiar place. The small boat of the day sails into morning, past the postman with his modest haul, the full sound like the sea, leaving my hands free to remember. Moments of grace. Like this. — Carol Ann Duffy, from “Moments of Grace,” Collected Poems (Picador, 2015)
What is love if it is not an unravelling against the dark? In the moonless field between house and river, remember how you stood with your arms wide to the night, under every tumid star, waiting for one to drop. — John Glenday, “Windfall,” The Golden Mean (Picador, 2015)
I am simply a wounded and dying man. Who can be more regal than a dying man? — Alasdair Gray, Lanark. (Canongate Pub Ltd March 2003) Originally published 1981.
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.