When I Am Dead, My DearestWhen I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops...

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering...

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again...

Numbered are the daysof hunger stricken straysa woman’s curving tastea paper police state.

There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it

In fact she herself once blamed meKyprogeneiabecause I prayed this word:I want.

Again I see you, But me I don’t see!, The magical mirror in which I saw myself has been broken, And only a piece of me I see in each fatal fragment – Only a...

Be as audaciousAs you wish.By all means look to the heavens.

Dreams are chequered commentary made in sleepAlong the deeps of our desires, moving like riddles through a magic gladeLightly they touch the leap of hidden fires.

I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.

Poetry is much more important than the truth, and, if you don’t believe that, try using the two methods to get laid.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

Porque a volar no se aprende solo, pero a caer no se aprende nunca.

Love crosses the sky on a peculiar disturbing night.

what is a journeywithout someone who wandersif sometimes a pairis made of two

The UnchangingSun-swept beaches with a light wind blowingFrom the immense blue circle of the sea,And the soft thunder where long waves whiten—These were the same for Sappho as for me.Two thousand years—much has gone by...

Pain is an old friend who left briefly and has now returned. Starvation without sustenance, I had grown acquaint. Satiety was a stranger who invaded my deepest being, and now I cannot live without.

I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

Love’s night and a lampJudged our vows:That she would love me everAnd I should never leave her.Love’s night and you, lamp,Witnessed the pact.Today the vow runs:”Oaths such as these, waterwords.”Tonight, lamp,Witness her lying- In other...

Free will is like fallenleaves agreeing to bewhere they are.

A Poet = A willingness to be vulnerable & to trust the inner voice.

[…]the stately and slow-moving Turk,With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm.

But usually not. Usually she thinks of the path to his house, whether deer had eaten the tops of the fiddleheads, why they don’t eat the peppermint saprophytes sprouting along the creek; or she visualizes...

Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie,Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down.Singing:...

When i remember your namei know you are my hope.for what ?not for love…’cause i know you can’t love me.but i know you are my hope for… Life.Just remembering your smile…i know you are my...

To count the stones losing countis the sense of our life: the algebraof our displacements.To follow paths losing sense is the circumvolution, the evolution: the logicof our moments. But. No.There is no symmetry in our...

It…whatever ‘it’ is, has swallowed me and I lie here in the pit of its cold dark stomach being eaten alive by its bile and I…I don’t even know if I want to be saved.

So, the world happens twice–once what we see it as;second it legends itselfdeep, the way it is.

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

I hate the very noise of troublous man Who did and does me all the harm he can. Free from the world I would a prisoner be And my own shadow all my company

We cannot always cry at the right timeand who is to say which time is right?

In Irena’s head the alcohol plays a double role: it frees her fantasy, encourages her boldness, makes her sensual, and at the same time it dims her memory. She makes love wildly, lasciviously, and at...

it is being honest about my painthat makes me invincible.

In the country whereto I goI shall not see the face of my friendNor her hair the color of sunburnt grasses;Together we shall not findThe land on whose hills bends the new moonIn air traversed...

I want a marriage of companions—one of shared lives and shared poems,’ he murmured. ‘If we were husband and wife, we would collect books, read, and drink tea together. As I told you before, I’d...

A world without poetry and art would be too much like one without birds or flowers: bearable but a lot less enjoyable.

Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly

The most racket time of the year for those that don’t know, is the warmest of the four seasons and the winter as it is so cold and felt in your heart.

Nay, sorrow is the greater.”But I say unto you, they are inseparable.Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Hombre pequeñito que jaula me das. Digo pequeñito porque no me entiendes, ni me entenderás. Tampoco te entiendo, pero mientras tanto ábreme la jaula que quiero escapar. Hombre pequeñito, te amé media hora, no me...

The Good-MorrowI wonder by my troth, what thou, and IDid, till we lov’d? Were we not wean’d till then?But suck’d on countrey pleasures, childishly?Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?T’was so; But this, all...

Sully suffers from a stutter,simple syllables will clutter,stalling speeches up on beacheslike a sunken sailboat rudder.Sully strains to say his phrases,sickened by the sounds he raises,strings of thoughts come out in knots,he solves his sentences...

Always our wars have been our confessions of weakness

the bouquetBetween me and the worldyou are a bay, a sailthe faithful ends of a ropeyou are a fountain, a wind, a shrill childhood cry.Between me and the worldyou are a picture frame, a windowa...

I don’t think all writers are sad, she said.I think it’s the other way around—all sad people write.

Listen,” Francois said. “Yonder is Paris –laughing, tragic Paris, who once had need of a singer to proclaim her splendor and all her misery. Fate made the man; in necessity’s mortar she pounded his soul...

At Times I Am A Flower…at times I am a flower ~singularly defined …

The world and the friends that lived in it are shadows: you alone remain real in this drowsing room.

Ode to the Chamber…linger here amidst the chamberin which we embrace our lovetalk to me of sonnetsand call me turtledove…

Here we go mother on the shipless ocean.Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.