Only one woman exists in this world, one woman with countless faces. ― Nikos Kazantzakis, The Last Temptation of Christ. (Simon & Schuster; Reprint edition March 1, 1998) Originally published 1952.
End of Winter Over the still world, a bird callswaking solitary among black boughs. You wanted to be born; I let you be born.When has my grief ever gottenin the way of your pleasure? Plunging aheadinto the dark and light at the same timeeager for sensation as though you were some new thing, wantingto express… Continue reading Louise Glück
Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being to which we rarely penetrate for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves. ― T.S. Eliot
The last memory I haveIs of a flower which cannot be touched, Through the bloom of which, all day,Fly crazed, missing bees. — Galway Kinnell, from “Flower Herding on Mount Monadnock,” Flower Herding on Mount Monadnock (Houghton Mifflin, 1964)
Much of poetry is an anguished waiting. — Theodore Roethke, On Poetry and Craft: Selected Prose. (Copper Canyon Press; First Edition (US) First Printing edition April 1, 2001) Originally published June 1st 1965.
I wrote on the windThe name of my love.I wrote it on the water.I did not knowThat the wind rushes by without listening,That names dissolve in the water. — Nizar Qabbani, from “The Book of Love,” On Entering the Sea: The Erotic and Other Poetry of Nizar Qabbani (Interlink Pub Group, 2013)
He wondered if what he had taken for the richness of silence was really the poverty of never being heard […]. How could he have forgotten what he had always known: there is no match for the silence of God. ― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love. (W. W. Norton & Company; 1st edition May… Continue reading Nicole Krauss
My ladyfair withsoftarms, what can I say to you—words, words as if allworlds were there. — Robert Creeley, “A Token” The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley 1945-1975 (University of California Press, 2006)
We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin. ― Fernando Pessoa
finallythere is nothing here for death totakeaway. — Charles Bukowski, from “Everywhere, Everywhere,” What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire. (Ecco; 1 edition June 1, 2002)