A distich by Joseph Brodsky
"… not our
desire hissing Tell me
your parts
that I may understand
your body,
your story."
— Jorie Graham, from “The Age of Reason” in Dream of the Unified Field
desire hissing Tell me
your parts
that I may understand
your body,
your story."
"The dark eagles, sleep and death,
Rustle all night around my head:
The golden statue of man
Is swallowed by the icy comber
Of eternity. On the frightening reef
The purple remains go to pieces,
And the dark voice mourns
Over the sea.Sister in my wild despair
Look, a precarious skiff is sinking
Under the stars,
The face of night whose voice is fading."
— Georg Trakl, “Mourning,” trans. James Wright and Robert Bly Rustle all night around my head:
The golden statue of man
Is swallowed by the icy comber
Of eternity. On the frightening reef
The purple remains go to pieces,
And the dark voice mourns
Over the sea.Sister in my wild despair
Look, a precarious skiff is sinking
Under the stars,
The face of night whose voice is fading."
(via bellswithin)
"And my song needs to breathe: poetry isn’t poetry
and prose isn’t prose. I dreamt that you are the last of what god told me
when I saw you both in my sleep, then there were words…"
— Maḥmoud Darwish, from “Sonnet I” in The Butterfly’s Burden, trans. Fady Joudah
and prose isn’t prose. I dreamt that you are the last of what god told me
when I saw you both in my sleep, then there were words…"
My review of Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate Imre Kertész’s memoir Dossier K.—published this month by Melville House—is over at Berfrois.
"What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?"
— Mark Strand, from “No Words Can Describe It” (via awritersruminations)
"Above the green plateau there is always grief,
which, inspired, becomes the breath of life."
— Gary J. Whitehead, from “Ararat”
which, inspired, becomes the breath of life."
"The last time I held him, the last time we spoke, just
a whisper—hoarse—that marries now this many-voiced mansion
of storm and from him I’ve learned to slip my body,
to be the storm governed by the law of bounty given
then taken away. Shush and glide. This tide’s running
high, its silken muscular tearing ruled by cycles,
relentless, the drawn lavish damasks—teal, aquamarine,
silvered steel, desire’s tidal forces, such urgent
fullness, the elaborate collapse, and withdrawal
beyond the drawn curtain that shows the secret
desert of bare ruched sand. I’ve learned this,
I’ve learned to be the horn calling home
the journeyer, saying farewell. And here’s
the foghorn’s simple two-note wail,
mechanical stark aria that ripples
out to shelter all of us—
our mortal burden of dreams—
adrift in the sea’s restless shouldering."
— Lynda Hull, from “Rivers into Seas”
a whisper—hoarse—that marries now this many-voiced mansion
of storm and from him I’ve learned to slip my body,
to be the storm governed by the law of bounty given
then taken away. Shush and glide. This tide’s running
high, its silken muscular tearing ruled by cycles,
relentless, the drawn lavish damasks—teal, aquamarine,
silvered steel, desire’s tidal forces, such urgent
fullness, the elaborate collapse, and withdrawal
beyond the drawn curtain that shows the secret
desert of bare ruched sand. I’ve learned this,
I’ve learned to be the horn calling home
the journeyer, saying farewell. And here’s
the foghorn’s simple two-note wail,
mechanical stark aria that ripples
out to shelter all of us—
our mortal burden of dreams—
adrift in the sea’s restless shouldering."
"And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire."
— Anna Akhmatova, You Will Hear Thunder, trans. D. M. Thomas
![Emily Dickinson’s manuscript of “[The way Hope builds his House]”](http://25.media.tumblr.com/8d395538b51803bbe18f15e5f4654af5/tumblr_mmxby84JUN1qc2mclo1_500.jpg)
"First thing we should do / if we see each other again is to make / a cage of our bodies—inside we can place / whatever still shines."
— Nick Flynn, from “forgetting something”
"Sweet miracle of our empty hands."
— Georges Bernanos, The Diary of a Country Priest, trans. Pamela Morris
"What I have loved so far, I have loved in order to be able to love you."
— Paul Celan, from a letter to his wife Gisèle, 1952
