THIS IS WHYHe will never be given to wonder muchif he was the mouth for some cruel forcethat said it. But if he were(this will comfort her) less than one momentout of millions had he...

The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room...

Malam ini, ia ingin sekali tengadah ke langit gelap penuh bintang di dalam hutan itu. Ia ingin malam ini bulan hanya berbentuk sabit dan tak banyak lolongan hewan agar ia bisa menatap langit sendiri saja...

seeing a woman cough today made me sense a vague fear of death

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

Tonight, I decided to take a stroll down to my local liquor store. Maybe I’ll find a refreshment to wash down this full moon. I hate showing up & the clerk fucking knows my name,...

I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrence risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body....

Yver, vous n’estes qu’un villain,Esté est plaisant et gentil,En tesmoing de May et d’AvrilQui l’acompaignent soir et main.Esté revest champs, bois et fleurs,De sa livrée de verdureEt de maintes autres couleurs,Par l’ordonnance de Nature.Mais vous,...

a bruise, bluein the muscle, youimpinge upon me.As bone hugs the ache home, soI’m vexed to love you, your bodythe shape of returns, your hair a torsoof light, your heatI must have, your openingI’d eat,...

We may feel bitterly how little our poems can do in the face of seemingly out of control technological power and seemingly limitless corporate greed, yet it has always been true that poetry can break...

i want to go to the gymand pretend the weight machines are drumsand play the longest drum solo on them

And the silence, it cuts me. The silence, it gores me,Spilling my blood as the rain falls on me.Excerpt from “Silence

When composing a verse let there not be a hair’s breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree...

Gather the stars if you wish it soGather the songs and keep them.Gather the faces of women.Gather for keeping years and years.And then…Loosen your hands, let go and say good-bye.Let the stars and songs go.Let...

UPYou wake up filled with dread.There seems no reason for it.Morning light sifts through the window,there is birdsong,you can’t get out of bed.It’s something about the crumpled sheetshanging over the edge like junglefoliage, the terry...

She reads his poems gratefully in her small Mississippi town. It’s an undramatic life, yet these past months she seems to have found the intensity he yearns for, This also sounds like bragging, though she...

…the winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows…

One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

…red sings like summer in the shadows, hot on my tongue…

It is beautiful to express love and even more beautiful to feel it.

Contemplating from the confines of a desk the reality of death is worthwhile, but only moderately enriching. Too often do I resort to it; rarely do I get with death in the ring.

If we were to understand how important it is to say something and say it well, maybe we wouldn’t write a single word, but that would be tragic.

…I’m constantly agitated, restless – I work moments like worry beads until I see your face…

Nothing is inanimate; what is the rest is our interpretation.

For darkness restores what light cannot repair.

There are two ways to dislike poetry: One is to dislike it; the other is to read Pope.

The image of a wood has appeared often enough in English verse. It has indeed appeared so often that it has gathered a good deal of verse into itself; so that it has become a...

There is nothing like scrubbing toilets for a living to make you question the choices you have made in life.

If emptiness is endless, then everything rests in emptiness.

To love is to soar in the wild unexpectedly.

Get out, but don’t cause unneeded accidents.

Maybe what this is. What we have, is something that will save us from ourselves.

Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.

Car j’ai vécu de vous attendre,Et mon coeur n’était que vos pas.

The fly lands on the swatter.The movie runs backwardsand catches fire in the projector.This species apes us wellby talking only about itself

When I took my poetry class in school. I read an e. e. cummings poem. I don’t mind eels except how they feels and maybe as meals. I knew there was hope for me.

Now that we are all so smart, we don’t easily find resolutions.

I started writing poetry and philosophy when I was 17 years old and my mind so was wild. Now I’m 56 and I often want to write like a child.

Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.

Deep down,I lay dormant inside her head,Deep down,I lay the rules inside her head,Deep down,I lay inside inside her heart,Deep down,I know she will never move onBecause deep down, I am always there

Her magnificence is deeper than skin.

History says, Don’t hopeOn this side of the grave,But then, once in a lifetimeThe longed-for tidal waveOf justice can rise up,And hope and history rhyme

This weekin live currentevents: your eyes.All power can bedangerous:Director alternating,you, socket to me.Plugged in and the gridis humming,this electricity,molecule-deep desire:particular friction, a chargestrong enough to stopa heartor start itagain; volt, re-volt–I shudder, I stutter, I...

He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

Today is such a lovely day, my heart is dancing with joy.My mind is flowing with timeand my soul is longing for your soul.

Your smile is poetry to my soul igniting flames of old

Second FigSafe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

Historical sense and poetic sense should not, in the end, be contradictory, for if poetry is the little myth we make, history is the big myth we live, and in our living, constantly remake.

It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India—a hundred Indias—whispered outside...

REFLECTIONS OF TRUTHWhere you find TruthIs where you find your reflectionAnd where you find your reflectionIs where you find loveAnd where you find loveIs where you find lightAnd where you find lightIs where you find...