February 2012
43 posts
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Listen
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The Letter
Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly’s legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncertain window and the bare floor
Spattered with moonlight? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns, And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved,...
“… perhaps in dreams shall we meet as dried flowers are chanced upon pressed softly in books.”
— Ahmed Faraz
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From "To Dorothy"
You are not beautiful, exactly. You are beautiful, inexactly. You let a weed grow by the mulberry and a mulberry grow by the house. So close, in the personal quiet of a windy night, it brushes the wall and sweeps away the day till we sleep.
— Marvin Bell
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“Perhaps love is the process of leading you gently back to yourself.”
– Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Wind, Sand, and Stars (1939)
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“You—are untranslatable
Into any one tongue.”
– ―Anna Akhmatova, The Complete Poems
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January 25th
All night in the flue like a trapped thing, like a broken bird, the wind knocked unanswered. Snow fell down the chimney, making the forked logs spit ashes of resurrected crickets. By 3 A.M. both stoves were dead. A ball of steel wool froze to the kitchen windowsill, while we lay back to back in bed, two thin survivors. Somewhere in a small dream a chipmunk uncorked from his hole and dodged...
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“There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden—large and shady, full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them.”
— Charlotte Perkins Gilman - “The Yellow Wallpaper”
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The Moon is distant from the Sea – And yet, with Amber Hands – She leads Him – docile as a Boy – Along appointed Sands –
He never misses a Degree – Obedient to Her eye – He comes just so far – toward the Town – Just so far – goes away –
Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand – And mine – the distant Sea – Obedient to the least command Thine eye impose on me –
— Emily Dickinson
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Fleeting
fluttering, flittering, flickering
finite.
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Appetite
I eat these wild red raspberries still warm from the sun and smelling faintly of jewel weed in memory of my father tucking the napkin under his chin and bending over an ironstone bowl of the bright drupelets awash in cream my father with the sigh of a man who has seen all and been redeemed said time after time as he lifted his spoon men kill for this.
— Maxime Kumin
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Winter is good-- his Hoar Delights (1316)
Winter is good - his Hoar Delights Italic flavor yield - To Intellects inebriate With Summer, or the World -
Generic as a Quarry And hearty - as a Rose - Invited with asperity But welcome when he goes.
— Emily Dickinson
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to be completely alive every moment in spite of the inevitable. we can’t cheat death but we can make it work so hard that when it does take us it will have known a victory just as perfect as ours.
— Charles Bukowski - The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps
Step by step
walking to california…
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Much Madness is divinest Sense- To a discerning Eye- Much Sense-the starkest Madness- ‘Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail- Assent-and you are sane- Demur-you’re straightway dangerous- And handled with a Chain-
— Emily Dickinson
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January 2012
79 posts
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53
may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living whatever they sing is better than to know and if men should not hear them men are old may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple for even if it’s sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly...
