The first poetry is always written againstthe wind by sailors & farmers who sing with thewind in their teeth. The second poetry is written by scholarsand wine drinkers who have learned to know a goodthing. The third poetry is sometimes never writtenbut when it is, it’s by those who have broughtnature and art together into… Continue reading Walter Inglis Anderson
You come like a soft whisper Riding the crest of an autumn breezeThrough an indigo drenched morning Breaching my eardrumsPenetrating my aching blood vessels Pouring into my heart Like a river to the sea You bloom like a supernova Blazing radiant in a neon vacuumA juvenescent surge of electricity Pulsing through this weary machineRupturing my… Continue reading Richard Miller
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water. And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home, and you have cried yourself to sleep enough times that you are down to your last two percent, but nothing is infinite, not… Continue reading Finn Butler
The door in my heartopened on its hinges,and once more the galleryof my history was revealed.Once more the little plazawith flowering acacias,once more the clear fountaintelling its tale of love… — Antonio Machado, “The Door of My Heart,” Songs of the High Country
As my prayer become more attentive and inwardI had less and less to say.I finally became completely silent.I started to listen– which is even further removed from speaking.I first thought that praying entailed speaking.I then learnt that praying is hearing,not merely being silent.This is how it is.To pray does not mean to listen to oneself… Continue reading Søren Kierkegaard
Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,wind thrashing in the leaves, hugeears, huge feathers,like some chased animal, a giantdog or wild boar. Thunder & shiveringwindows; from the tin roofthe rush of water. I lie askew under the net,tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.When this clears there will be fireflies& stars, brighter than… Continue reading Margaret Atwood
See how in their veins all becomes spirit:into each other they mature and grow.Like axles, their forms tremblingly orbit,round which it whirls, bewitching and aglow.Thirsters, and they receive drink,watchers, and see: they receive sight.Let them into one another sinkso as to endure each other outright. –– Rainer Maria Rilke, “The Lovers”, trans. John J. L.… Continue reading Rainer Maria Rilke
It’s all messy. The hair. The bed. The words. The heart. Life… — William Leal
What Lot’s Wife Would Have Said (If She Wasn’t A Pillar of Salt) Do you remember when we metin Gomorrah? When you were still beardless,and I would oil my hair in the lamp light before seeingyou, when we were young, and blushed with youthlike bruised fruit. Did we care thenwhat our neighbors didin the dark?… Continue reading Karen Finneyfrock
Night breathed the hollow smoke of longing, — Karla A., “untitled“, July 2020
The Vale of Soul-Making 