The suffering touched me too early,I have burned myself out,I am the bright ash without desire.Now, only the silence endures dearly,When I am still standing in the fire. — Grażyna Chrostowska, written in Ravensbrück, 13th April 1942. Translated by Jarek Gajewski
I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above; / Those that I fight I do not hate / Those that I guard I do not love. ― W.B. Yeats, from “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death,” Macmillan edition of The Wild Swans at Coole (1918/1919)
And yet I still am half in love with pain, With what is imperfect, with both tears and mirth, With things that have an end, with life and earth, And this moon that leaves me dark within the door. — Edward Thomas, from “Liberty,” Collected Poems: Edward Thomas. (Faber & Faber January 1980) Originally published… Continue reading Edward Thomas
If a body is what you want, then here is bone and gristle and flesh. Here is the clavicle-snapped wish, the aorta’s opened valves, the leap thought makes at the synaptic gap. Here is the adrenaline rush you crave, that inexorable flight, that insane puncture into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish… Continue reading Brian Turner
The Vale of Soul-Making 