A word can rub itself rosy against its cage of context, starting a small fire in the sentence and trapping for a moment the twin scents of now and goodbye. The sexual mimicry always surprises me: the long dive the talky mind makes into the pleasures of its native dark. — Chase Twichell, from “Word… Continue reading Chase Twichell
Life and love are life and love, a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets, and to drag in the idea of a point is to ruin everything. Live and let live, love and let love, flower and fade, and follow the natural curve, which flows on, pointless. ― D. H. Lawrence
Sometimes I come here just to be a lost mariner but I am never lost: there are the snowflakes frozen to the porthole of a jewelry store, here is the treasure chest open to a single pearl laid on a velvet slab, there is the plashing of faces in the aisles and the row of… Continue reading Nancy Eimers
Loss was not a skill, not a measure of a life. And yet I still felt I had something to lose. — Haruki Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. (Kodansha USA Inc; 1st edition, September 1, 1991) Originally published 1985.
Dove left open by love in a meadow, Dove commanding me not to know where it sank into the almost-night—for you I will learn to play the concertina, to write poems full of hateful jasmine and longing, to keep the dead alive, to sicken at the least separation. Dove, for whose sake I will never… Continue reading Tess Gallagher
There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love. — Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveler’s Wife. (Zola Books, September 22, 2015)
Like silent little children we embrace, Aching together. And love is emptiness of ear. As cure We put a face against our ear And listen to it as we would a shell, Soothed by its roar. We find the body difficult, and speak Across its wall like strangers. — Jack Spicer, from “We find the… Continue reading Jack Spicer