American Culture · American Literature · Contemporary · Excerpt · Language Driven Poetry · Online Magazine · Online Review · Passage · Periodical · Poetry

Richard Jackson

Why is it we love so fully what has washed up on the beaches of our hearts, those lost messages, lost friends, the daylight stars we never get to see? Bad luck never takes a vacation, my friend once wrote. It lies there among the broken shells and stones we collect, a story he would… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Language Driven Poetry · Passage · Poetry

Richard Jackson

Suddenly it seems memory is impossible. Who can say what fills the coffin of the moment? Are we, then, like moths at a candle, glowing longer than life is left in us? I don’t know how much longer it is possible to stay in a poem like this one, sifting through the ashes of the… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Language Driven Poetry · Passage · Poetry

Richard Jackson

The thing is to sift out / the important sounds, little syllables and vowels that bring / hints of their lost words, and not to mistake the fossil for / the life, or the kiss for the love, not to mistake the fragment / for the sentence. — Richard Jackson, from “Tip of My Tongue,”… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Contemporary · Excerpt · Language Driven Poetry · Online Magazine · Online Review · Passage · Periodical · Poetry

Richard Jackson

Why is it we love so fully what has washed up on the beaches of our hearts, those lost messages, lost friends, the daylight stars we never get to see? Bad luck never takes a vacation, my friend once wrote. It lies there among the broken shells and stones we collect, a story he would… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Language Driven Poetry · Passage · Poetry

Richard Jackson

The air here is mottled with all these dreams. Above me the swifts write a random history of the soul. Against them, I put these words for you, a kind of prayer themselves, a way to redeem the silences these bones announce, something about the way we live our loves, forever on the verge of… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Language Driven Poetry · Passage · Poetry

Richard Jackson

My love, whose fingers are matches, whose waist is encircled by the arms of the wind. My love, how the world sleeps in your throat, how your heart is filled with the scents of raspberries and grapes, to live inside you, to live inside the warm peach. Otherwise there is no way to stop despair… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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