The world will not be saved by poets or poetry.

It is our fate to give ourselves most lavishlyto those who’d rather not be burdened with the gift

Poetry is prose in slow motion.

while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.

Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love,...

I’ve come down from the skylike some damned ghost, delayedtoo long…To the abandoned fieldsthe trees returned and grew.They stand and grow. Time comesTo them, time goes, the treesStand; the only placeThey go is where they...

Poetry will die when love and pain cease to exist.

There may be losses too great to understandThat rove after you and–faint and terrible– rip unknown through your hand.

To SolitudeO Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,— Nature’s observatory—whence the dell, Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal...

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,Hath had elsewhere its setting,And cometh from afar:Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory...

In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.

Only those who will love longer than they expected to can truly love pecan pie, which doesn’t explain its status as death rows most requested last dessert, or why chopped pecans, corn syrup, directions from...

The city they are building asks you to stay; remind yourself what is worth keeping, while the lighthouse of your moan warns the ship of your heart that he is a stone.

From love’s plectrum arisesthe song of the string of lifeLove is the light of lifelove is the fire of life

The future belongs to all who, refusing to look back at the past move ahead with the clock as it ticks.

Poetry and art nourish the soul of the world with the flavor-filled substances of beauty, wisdom and truth.

Mathematicians still don’t understandthe ball our hands made, or howyour electrocuted grandparents made it possiblefor you to light my cigarettes with your eyes.It isn’t as simple as me climbing into the windowto leave six ounces...

Siempre hay un rey sobre un caballoen las viejas ciudades;lo custodian las fuentes y los niñosy un insólito pájaro.Cuando los veo, pienso que la muertemira de las estatuasarmada hasta los dientes, con sus ojosde bronce...

I’m looking for youinto that silverspoon where I taste my reflection to feel the touch of your untouchables- from the poem “Looking For You

The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.

. . .because we had survivedsisters and brothers, daughters and sons,we discovered bones that rosefrom the dark earth and sangas white birds in the treesBecause the story of our lifebecomes our lifeBecause each of us...

People are laughing at me today for having holes in my pockets, and ink blood on my fingers- a thirty-something old writer, who strangles words from dictionaries, and feeds on the decay of poetry.

Eggshells become hard to break after walking on them for so long.

For the Wife Beater’s WifeWith blue irises her face is blossomed. BlueCircling to yellow, circling to brown on her cheeks.The long bone of her jaw untrackedShe hides in our kitchen.He sleeps it off next door.Her...

My NameOnce when the lawn was a golden green and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed with the chirr and murmur of insects, I...

from “Semele Recycled”But then your great voice rang out under the skiesmy name!– and all those private namesfor the parts and places that had loved you best.And they stirred in their nest of hay and...

Depths of Friendship…under fathoms deepof dark and bitter coldan eerie oscillationreverberated brash and bold…

Mega biblion, mega kakon (Big book, big evil)

Optimism / stung like grit in my swimsuit all the long ride home . . .

Farewell to thee! but not farewellTo all my fondest thoughts of thee:Within my heart they still shall dwell;And they shall cheer and comfort me.

Percy wakes me (fourteen)Percy wakes me and I am not ready.He has slept all night under the covers.Now he’s eager for action: a walk, then breakfast.So I hasten up. He is sitting on the kitchen...

Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

And then I feel the sun itselfas it blazes over the hills,like a million flowers on fire –clearly I’m not needed,yet I feel myself turninginto something of inexplicable value.-from The Buddha’s Last Instruction

When I Was One-And-TwentyWhen I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say,`Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away;Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free.’But I was one-and-twenty...

The sun loved me again when it saw that the stars would not abandon me.

I love with love, so that we all may love.” ~ Amunhotep El Bey

This is freedom. This is the face of faith, nobody getswhat they want. Never again are you the same. The longingis to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more byeach...

In summer the empire of insects spreads.

Steep fall to the groundshatteringlike clay pigeons missed by bad shotsand unsteady hands.

Letting goI can have a firm foundationTo honor youAnd hold you in my heart

she wanted because art

My cup is yellowOr not, though not’sImpossibleIt’s yellow

Kun olen kuollut, kun olen kuollut.Kesä jatkuu. Kesä.

when we were kidslaying around the lawnon ourbellieswe often talkedabouthowwe’d like todieandwe allagreed on thesamething;we’d alllike to diefucking(althoughnone of ushaddone anyfucking)and nowthatwe are hardlykidsany longerwe think moreabouthownot todieandalthoughwe’rereadymost ofuswouldprefer todo italoneunder thesheetsnowthatmost ofushave fuckedour livesaway.

We wrote our names in the sandYou crossed mine out: I can’t getback to the way I was.

I feel no grief for being called somethingwhichI am not;in fact, it’s enthralling, somehow, like a goodback rub

Des Menschen Kraft, im Dichter offenbartThe human power is revealed by poetIl potere dell’umanità si rivela nel poeta

and love is a word usedtoo much andmuchtoo soon.

I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.

an infinite storm of beauty.”The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth’s face through...