… and the most beautiful words ever spoken, I have not yet said to you.

…I would not engage the wombatIn any form of mortal combat.

I could do with a bit more excess. From now on I’m going to be immoderate–and volatile–I shall enjoy loud music and lurid poetry. I shall be rampant.

Even when muddy your wings sparkle bright wonders that heal broken worlds.

On the edge of dreaming when the brain lets go, when it stops its scheming, our blood runs slow… Then the heart speaks clearly of the things it knows, things it brought so dearly at...

a joy that hurts with sadnessa sadness that is pleasurablea pleasure full of terrora terror that excitesan excitement that calmsa calmness that frightens.

Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.

Open the fridge and putMy heart on a plate.I’m just as you leftme, and I taste even betterleftover.

Only our love hath no decay; This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday, Running it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed.

I opened my veins. Unstoppablylife spurts out with no remedy.Now I set out bowls and plates.Every bowl will be shallow.Every plate will be small.And overflowing their rims,into the black earth, to nourishthe rushes unstoppablywithout cure,...

You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,And what is invisible stays that way.

Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.

MotherHushed and sacred silencefills the dawning skyI ponder in this momentof our journey which is nigh…

The life spills over, some days.She cannot be at rest,Wishes she could explodeLike that red tree—The one that bursts into fireAll this week.Senses her infinite smallnessBut can’t seize it,Recognizes the folly of desire,The folly of...

Hay menos tiempo que lugar, no obstante, hay lugares que duran un minuto y para cierto tiempo no ha lugar.

Neither pathway is correct.

The Poet With His Face In His HandsYou want to cry aloud for your mistakes. But to tell the truth the world doesn’t need anymore of that sound.So if you’re going to do it and...

As lines, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet. Therefore the love which us doth bind, But Fate so enviously debars, Is...

You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose.

Shine and shimmer my Harvest Moon,illuminate the shadows in the sky.

Boast of QuietnessWritings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like tounderstand them.Their day is...

I learned a world from each / one whom I loved

An Anna BlumeOh Du, Geliebte meiner 27 Sinne, ich liebe Dir!Du, Deiner; Dich Dir, ich Dir, Du mir, – – – – wir?Das gehört beiläufig nicht hierher!Wer bist Du , ungezähltes Frauenzimmer, Du bist, bist...

Tell me, enigmatical man, whom do you love best, your father,Your mother, your sister, or your brother?I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.Your friends?Now you use a word whose meaning I have...

This was what the poets couldn’t put in their poetry, she thought dumbly, the rush of desire so fierce and pure it made one shake, all on the force of a word.

DESPITE THE INVENTION OF TIME MACHINES, WE KEEP BEING LINEAR.

By giving words the latitude she does, (Marianne) Van Hirtum emphasizes their contagious qualities: they become almost like viruses, with which it is necessary to put oneself in harmony by sympathetic magic if one is...

I am stuffing your mouth with yourpromises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

Purity is defined by the clearness of the stars

If I bet on humanity, I’d never cash a ticket.

Music is poetry in motion.

it is so dark now with the sadness ofpeoplethey were tricked, they were taught to expect theultimate when nothing ispromisednow young girls weep alone in small roomsold men angrily swing their canes atvisions asladies comb...

I see what I want of Love… I see horses making the meadow dance, fifty guitars sighing, and a swarm of bees suckling the wild berries, and I close my eyes until I see our...

the impossibility of being humanall too humanthis breathingin and outout and inthese punksthese cowardsthese championsthese mad dogs of glorymoving this little bit of light towardusimpossibly.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

. . .criticism is to poetry as air is to a noise: it allows it to be heard; and even if we can’t see it or feel it, it is there, shaping how we hear.

but in the cityin which I love you,no one comes, no onemeets me in the brick clefts;in the wedged dark,no finger touches me secretly, no mouthtastes my flawless salt,no one wakens the honey in the...

A language is a map of our failures

What did you think, that joy / was some slight thing?

A little learning is a dangerous thing.Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring;There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,and drinking largely sobers us again.

The River Mogami has drownedFar and deepBeneath its surging wavesThe flaming sun of summer

I speak of new cities and new peopleI tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,a sun dropped in the west.I tell you there is nothing...

Poetry, plays, novels, music, they are the cry of the human spirit trying to understand itself and make sense of our world.

Poetry seems especially like nothing else so much as itself. Poetry is not like, it is the very lining of the inner life.

No wires tender even as nervescan transmit the impact ofour seasons, our catastropheswhile we are closed inside them

Poems are lenses, mirrors, and X-ray machines.

I find my data first in myself, not first in the poets. For if I did not find it in myself, I would not be able to find it in the poets.

He knows he will be born again, And start fresh anew.