Nº. 1 of  1173

A Poet Reflects



You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding. You ought to know
I’m never weeding, on my knees, pulling
clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact
I’m looking for courage, for some evidence
my life will change, though
it takes forever, checking
each clump for the symbolic
leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already
the leaves turning, always the sick trees
going first, the dying turning
brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform
their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?
As empty now as at the first note.
Or was the point always
to continue without a sign?

Louise Glück, from Wild Iris (Ecco, 1992)

Walter Leistikow, Sunset over the Grunewald 1895

Walter Leistikow, Sunset over the Grunewald 1895

(Source: 1910-again, via rolandscapes)


Every word is a doorway
to a meeting, one often cancelled,
and that’s when a word is true: when it insists on the meeting.

Yannis Ritsos, from “The Meaning of Simplicity,” The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (Ecco, 2010)

Think of what starlight
And lamplight would lack
Diamonds and fireflies
If they couldn’t lean against Black…

Mary O’Neill, from “What is Black,” Hailstones and Halibut Bones (Doubleday, 1989)

(Source: observando, via maclellansculpture)


My days are deer leaping from sight before they are seen,
shadows spreading into night before the sun ever rises,
eyes that close without ever opening, masked disguises
with nothing behind them, bitter or sweet words that mean
anything but what they mean. The world’s torn at its seams,—
heart from mind, flesh from bone,—and these eyes
that watched Love’s body as it suddenly seemed to rise
like some saint towards heaven now only blaspheme
her memory, for she lies beyond the gauze of stars,
before and after any time I knew her, like some comet
whose life is mostly beyond our sight, whose solitary life
is life itself. And so as my own life seems lived from afar,
my hair turning, my body failing, I struggle within time’s net
to dream her soul beyond all time, beyond this veil of strife.

—Richard Jackson, “Not Here,” from jubilat (no. 4)

Art attracts us only by what it reveals of our most secret self.

Jean-Luc Godard, “What Is Cinema?” Les Amis du Cinéma (Paris, October 1, 1952)

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction)

Kent Ambler, Migration, n.d.

Kent AmblerMigration, n.d.


(Source: yama-bato, via journalofanobody)

…that fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseperable from the perfection of the beautiful.

Edgar Allan Poe, from “the Assignation,” Edgar Allan Poe: Complete Tales & Poems (Castle Books, 2009) 

(Source: lilachris, via cwmy)


Who is alone now, will stay long alone,
will lie awake, read, get long letters written,
and through the streets that follow up and down
will wander restless, when the leaves are driven.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Autumn Day,” The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (Ecco, 2010)

Tony Joe White

"The Change" (album version)

Tony Joe White LP

Nº. 1 of  1173