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Frank Stanford

I feel like moonlight Abiding a dark lake You’re soft as deep water Everywhere like the stars When I lean down Kiss you I bloody my lips With the good dirt of the earth — Frank Stanford, from “The Earth in You,” What About This: Collected Poems of Frank Stanford (Copper Canyon Press, 2015) Advertisements

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Tennessee Williams

When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone. ― Tennessee Williams, Camino Real. (New Directions; 1 edition, January 17, 1970) Originally published 1948) Originally published 1948.

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William Faulkner

He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn’t need a word for that anymore than for pride or fear.… Continue reading William Faulkner

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Frank Stanford

I hear birds and whispers Like water gnawing a hull I build a fire In the bottom of my boat A good memory moves me through the current —Frank Stanford, from “If She Lives in the Hills,” What About This: Collected Poems of Frank Stanford (Copper Canyon Press, 2015)

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Robert Penn Warren

But why should I lie here longer? I am not dead yet … And the world’s way is yet long to go, And I love the world even in my anger, And love is a hard thing to outgrow. — Robert Penn Warren, from “American Portrait: Old Style,” Now and Then: Poems, 1976-1978 (Random House,… Continue reading Robert Penn Warren

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Flannery O’Connor

Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I’m always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system. — Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose. (Farrar,… Continue reading Flannery O’Connor

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Allen Braden

Then the bees come, more than you’d ever expect, whirring from sprig to sprig with such meticulous and random urgency you might think they understand each blossom begins to die upon its opening which has been hurried along by your own desire. — Allen Braden, from “Lilacs and Desires,” Louisiana Literature (vol. 34, no. 1,… Continue reading Allen Braden

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