It seems an odd idea to my students that poetry, like all art, leads us away from itself, back to the world in which we live. It furnishes the vision. It shows with intense clarity...

If you are a dreamer, come sit by my fire. For we have some flax-golden tales to spin; come in! Come in!

All that is gold does not glitter,Not all those who wander are lost;The old that is strong does not wither,Deep roots are not reached by the frost.From the ashes a fire shall be woken,A light...

We sit and talk,quietly, with long lapses of silenceand I am aware of the streamthat has no language, coursingbeneath the quiet heaven ofyour eyeswhich has no speech

Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it.

Una pausa en mi escritura para ver que vuelve a ser madrugada, que sigues en el firmamento. Que no mueres, auque te maten. Federico…

It’s not true I walk around naked most of the time. I always keeps red lipstick and stilettos on.

This is newness: every little tawdryObstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,Glinting and clinking in a saint’s falsetto. Only youDon’t know what to make of the sudden slippiness,The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.There’s no getting up it by...

And perhaps, I’m a Tuesday night and you’re a Wednesday morning the way we’ll never even notice how we blend into each other.

Art is not the handmaid of politics. It is its own remedy! And its healing is sacral.

Imagination makes the worldand all the wonders in it.The seed of every dream unfurlsas you with love begin it!

My Papa’s Waltz:The whiskey on your breathCould make a small boy dizzy;But I hung on like death:Such waltzing was not easy.We romped until the pansSlid from the kitchen shelf;My mother’s countenanceCould not unfrown itself.The hand...

I have to live with myself and so, I want to be fit for myself to know.

Come windless invaderI am a carnival ofStars, a poem of blood.

Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.

I heard the voice of that bird, son of Polypas, whose piercing outcryand whose arrival announces to men the season when fieldsare plowed, and the voice of her broke the heart that darkens within me,since...

Wolf Star shines on wintry high;Gazing northward by and by.Ice and snow on shorelines lie;Wind and spirits haunt the sky.

Where true Love burns Desire is Love’s pure flame;It is the reflex of our earthly frame,That takes its meaning from the nobler part,And but translates the language of the heart.

With love, it’s better to act now and think later. Write your love poem after you’ve made love, and not before.

I have daughters and I have sons.When one of them lays a handOn my shoulder, shining fishTurn suddenly in the deep sea.

I believe that only poetry counts … A great novelist is first of all a great poet.

A LamentO world! O life! O time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more — Oh, never more!Out of the day and...

I’d rather be thin than famousbut I’m fatpaste that in your broadway show

Happy Easter to you, my friend!This day’s light shall have no end.For Christ did riseIn the golden mornAnd by His life are we reborn.Happy Easter to one and all!The night is over, the sun is...

Women who focus on style over substance usually find themselves in a big fucking hole, with other men who want to fuck the hole. Oh so smooth, and none sophistacted. Because, you know, how sophisticated...

In this brief transit where the dreams crossThe dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these thingsFrom the wide window towards the granite shoreThe white sails still...

How do you knowyou’re a girl?I’m wearing a frock.And if you take it off?I get cold, so I putit back on.If I was a boy, I don’t know what I’d do.

Happiness. It comes onunexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,any early morning talk about it.

Is Bliss then, such Abyss,I must not put my foot amissFor fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my footThan save my Boot –For yet to buy another Pairis possible,At any store — But...

stronger than mountains.a place where my heart feels the safest- underneath his shirt.

How are poets able to unzip what they see around them, calling forth a truer essence from behind a common fact? Why, reading a verse about a pear, do you see past the fruit in...

savorwith methe lushnessof a lingering sleep…and last night’sdream.

some poems frothand foam and rise…out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

ne tappavat itsensä kaasulla, vedellä, tulella,ampumalla, hirttämällä, hyppäämällä, tekemälläharakirin, vuotamalla kuiviin, syömällätabuja tai tarttumalla sähkööntoiset tallentavat itsensä videolleheinäsirkat saapuvatmaa väistyy altakalpeat miehet nousevat kellareistavitamiinipurkit taskuissa helistenonko olemassa ketäänjolla ei olisi luurankoapiilossa sängyn alla!

Only in books the flat and final happens, Only in dreams we meet and interlock….

Here is Menard’s own intimate forest: ‘Now I am traversed by bridle paths, under the seal of sun and shade…I live in great density…Shelter lures me. I slump down into the thick foliage…In the forest,...

A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall

Not words. nor laughter. but rather someonewho will fall in lovewith your silence.

Dancing falls into the same category as poetry for a woman – it equals dreaming, which may inspire thoughts about such banned topics as love and desire.

in the afterglowof an evening raini lay downin the grass and think of youmy body acheslike an after-kissbreaking in soft firesand wildflowersmy dear, i will always bethis tender for you.

Words are what sticks to the real. We use them to push the real, to drag the real into the poem. They are what we hold on with, nothing else. They are as valuable in...

Your daughter is ugly.She knows loss intimately,carries whole cities in her belly.As a child, relatives wouldn’t hold her.She was splintered wood and sea water.They said she reminded them of the war.On her fifteenth birthday you...

Of the many forms that silence takes, the most memorable is the dry husk of the cicada.

O rose, you look sick.O rose, wake up and sing.

willow trees, willow trees they remind me of DesdemonaI’m so damned literary

Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

With a little more time, patience, and hard work, and above all with a more sensitive taste for the formal aspects of arts, he would have managed to write mediocre poetry, good enough for a...

All beautiful distractions, ignites from you.

Each Moment a White Bull Steps Shining into the World If the gods bring to youa strange and frightening creature,accept the giftas if it were one you had chosen. Say the accustomed prayers,oil the hooves...