in the cupboard sits my bottle like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers. I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony, sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere, the phone rings gamboling its sound against the odds of the crooked sea; I drink deeply and evenly now, I drink to paradise and… Continue reading Charles Bukowski
Our Lives are, as a rule, spent in the gray zone of relative values and dull half-measures. — Stanislaw Baranczak
I have seen the heart Move like a doe through the woods, move Like a stunned doe, deeper and deeper, Through trees that turn and close behind her, The way water closes over a dropped stone, Or a torn limb, or a lasting wound … — Brigit Pegeen Kelly, from “Botticelli’s St. Sebastian,” Song. .… Continue reading Brigit Pegeen Kelly
The poet is buried in the obliterated whiteness beneath the dark letters of a poem. — Jennifer Moxley, “Fragments of a Broken Poetics,” Chicago Review, Spring 2010
Murmuring of the brook in late summer darkness, after moonset, as I lay sleepless on the porch cot. A music extraordinarily variable. Each passage of water against its stone sounding a different pitch and rhythm. It was an uncivilized music in the foothills of the mountains, continuing long beyond the endurance of a human singer,… Continue reading Hayden Carruth
Thus each of us had to be content to live only for the day, alone under the vast indifference of the sky. — Albert Camus, The Plague. (Vintage, May 7, 1991) Originally published June 1947.
how small the day is the time of colors the rush of brightness — W.S. Merwin, from “The Hours of Darkness,” Poetry Vol. 174, No. 3, JUNE 1999