Poetry is the scholar’s art.

And this is what being an artist means, being a poet? To sacrifice yourself for your art, sacrifice your heart for your art, because it’s only through something broken that something beautiful can grow.

Death stoops over me.I’m a problem in chess. Hehas the solution.

I strike the ground with the soles of my feet and life rises up my legs, spreads up my skeleton, takes possession of me, drives away distress and sweetens my memory. The world trembles.

Sometimes when I’m aloneI Cry, Cause I am on my own.The tears I cry are bitter and warm.They flow with life but take no formI Cry because my heart is torn.I find it difficult to...

There have been times I’ve felt so much art in my soul I grew sick of artists.

evet kimsesizdik ama umudumuz vardıüç ev görsek bir şehir sanıyorduküç güvercin görsek meksika geliyordu aklımızacaddelerde gezmekten hoşlanıyorduk akşamlarıkadınların kocalarını aramasını seviyorduksonra şarap içiyorduk kırmızı yahut beyazbilir bilmez geyikli gece yüzünden

…Negligible Senescence…

When I heard the learn’d astronomer; When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me; When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them; When I, sitting,...

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,We people on the pavement looked at him:He was a gentleman from sole to crown,Clean favored, imperially slim.And he was always quietly arrayed,And he was always human when he talked;But...

Birds are flyin’ south for winter.Here’s the Weird-Bird headin’ north,Wings a-flappin’, beak a-chatterin’,Cold head bobbin’ back ‘n’ forth.He says, “It’s not that I like iceOr freezin’ winds and snowy ground.It’s just sometimes it’s kind of...

I miss you, I miss you at night, I can’t sleep without you anymore, I’m scared. Meet me in heaven.

Winning a love is just an outcome, keeping a love is a true accomplishment.

In school, I hated poetry – those skinny,Malnourished poems that professors love;The bad grammar and dirty words that catchIn the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.Pablo, your words are rain I run through,Grass I...

Mother (fragment)…You asked me if I would be sad when it happenedand I am sad. But the iris I moved from your housenow hold in the dusty dry fists of their rootsgreen knives and forks...

The adversary humbly cloaked in its fine smile ‘eyes devoid of kindness, speaking gentle its knife secretly hidden.

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss?Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

there are only so many thingsthat you can fix with your hands….What they don’t realize is I am not a thing to fix.

Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth.

A BlessingJust off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.And the eyes of those two Indian poniesDarken with kindness.They have come gladly out of the willowsTo welcome my friend and me.We...

Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.

Love is wind for the soul

All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in chronology.

And here, in thought, to thee-In thought that can alone, Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne, By winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the...

Wawashkeshthese apples arefor you,red on the whitesnow,their cider tangwill find youin the gray woods.There is a storyhow a snakeoffered an apple,so sweet, so cold,those bite wassorrow.–excerpt from Eric Gadzinski’s poem “Wawashkeshgiwis” from The Way North

That is what you meant to me: a light that shone through the darkness.” (Your smile, p. 56)

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man’s eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And...

If I were stranded in the woods with nothing to eat but nuts, berries, and the complete works of Allen Ginsberg, I’d eat the latter first, because at least the nuts and berries might be...

In a tired time, with the light outside drifting away for another day and the lights inside flickering as they come to life, I cup my hands together and prepare to give thanks … to...

Reading haiku is as much an art as writing it. The reader needs to pause and listen to the silences, to feel the spaces between the words, and to journey into the depths of many...

A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that...

Limitations are possibilities . . . Opportunities to perceive ourselvesBeyond our present selves . . .

~A Comparison of Seasons~Snow’s unforgiving power causes some men to wish for spring’s flower.Some might hate snow’s bitter chill, but you love it at your own will.I see snow as something fun, but others might...

That night, when the creature sleeps, when he sleeps, the mother escapes into her daughters’ room. She tells her daughter that the creature’s afraid of her having too much love, too much heart. She takes...

Honest criticism and sensible appreciation are directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry.

Author’s PrayerIf I speak for the dead, I mustleave this animal of my body,I must write the same poem over and overfor the empty page is a white flag of their surrender.If I speak of...

Maybe I should just lie quietly inside you while our old selves slip in and out of the back rooms of the soul.

Mine Enemy is growing old –I have at last Revenge –The Palate of the Hate departs –If any would avenge Let him be quick — the Viand flits –It is a faded Meat –Anger as...

Don’t read books!Don’t chant poems!When you read books your eyeballs wither awayleaving the bare sockets.When you chant poems your heart leaks out slowlywith each word.People say reading books is enjoyable.People say chanting poems is fun.But...

As the sky prepares to settle its tired, aching feetinto the night’s velvet slippersI settle, into my armchair, soaking the teabag,of my thoughts, into warm liquidy stars.

My religion consists of a dwelling admiration of illimitable spirit, with no hate in place, a whole heart to Love and care about the human race. There is lust within each of us, it’s sometimes...

I keep my kindness in my eyes Gently folded around my iris Like a velvety, brown blanket That warms my vision I keep my shyness in my hair Tucked away into a ponytail Looking for...

Onwetend van dit alles maakte ik eind vorige eeuw mijn entree in dit discours door aan een tijdschrift te vertellen dat poëzie volgens mij entertainment is. Als iemand dat platvloers vindt, voegde ik er behulpzaam...

Hands. Cheeks. Eyes. Lips.Neck. Ears.Thighs.Heart. Soul.Ahh!the things I get tosavor you with.

Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion. To accept everything is an exercise, to...

I have wished you something None of the others would….

Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart...

The MercyThe ship that took my mother to Ellis Islandeighty-three years ago was named “The Mercy.”She remembers trying to eat a bananawithout first peeling it and seeing her first orangein the hands of a young...

In those days I used to talk to myself as if reciting poetry.

What’s a rainy daywithout some deliciouscoffee-flavoured loneliness?