He felt his hunger no longer as a pain but as a tide. He felt it rising in himself through time and darkness, rising through the centuries, and he know that it rose in a line of men whose lives were chosen to sustain it, who would wander in the world, strangers from that violent country where the silence is never broken except to shout the truth. He felt it building from the blood of Abel to his...
You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens.– Rumi
Every artist contains multitudes. Graham Greene is a Roman Catholic, a partisan of Rome, if you like. Why then does he write so compulsively about bad, doubtful and doubting priests? Because a genuine artist, no matter what he says he believes, must feel in his blood the ultimate enmity between art and orthodoxy. Chinua Acheb, Anthills of the Savannah
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death...– Richard II
At least half of your mind is always thinking, I’ll be leaving; this won’t last....– The Art of Poetry No. 88, with Anne Carson
You’re burning me. I said. I’m not touching you. I know.
joni mitchell - last time i saw richard
Never ran this hard through the valley never ate so many stars I was carrying a dead deer tied on to my neck and shoulders deer legs hanging in front of me heavy on my chest People are not wanting to let me in
july - the innocence mission
Does the great world we dissolve into taste of us, then? Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies
You smell of absence Alone you gave birth to yourself– Vasko Popa, from “Heaven’s Ring” (translated by Charles Simic)
We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we...– Don DeLillo
We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.– Voltaire
When the rest of you Were being children, I became a monk To my own listing Imagination “Instead” by Frank Stanford
I felt absolutely helpless to so much wildness of heart, so much fury and hilarity, such language. My skin burned, my insides hurt. I wanted to bury myself in the snow, pull the pages down on top of me. I wanted the cat to curl above me, mark the spot where we were buried, the poem and I. Never was I to be this innocent again. C.D. Wright, prefacing The Battlefield Where The Moon Says I Love You...