Dahulu aku sering bertanya sendiri; kalau puisi itu berwujudakan seperti apakah dia? Matahari? Bulan? Bintang? Gunung?Laut? Bertahun lalu aku temukan puisi memancar mancar dari matamu,masuk ke dalam tubuhku. Seperti yang kau duga pada akhirnyaaku tahu...

. . .though the names of lovers are forgotten in time, their nameswritten across the sky as ogham threads are tracedbetween the stars

People always talk about how hard it can be to remember things – where they left their keys, or the name of an acquaintance – but no one ever talks about how much effort we...

No one has proved to me that my husband isn’t still alive somewhere in Southeast Asia. So, as far as I’m concerned, if even one man is alive, we own him more than this –...

There are so few people left alive from back then, you may as well be talking to them about the Black Death. Nobody recalls the shite in the 30s and that were fucking horrible. For...

She smiles, and her eyes look as if they can see back into her memory, into all the things that have gone into making a person what they are.

To forget is to blithely toss aside the hard lessons that were hard won by others before us, thereby needlessly dooming us to endure the hard lessons that are likely to be forgotten by those...

Hello,” Life says, “Remember me?We started out together hereWhen you were just a bundleOf innocent amazement.Remember how you saw the worldWith nothing but wonder?We were such rowdy playmates then.We painted on the sky with cloudsAnd...

I miss the smell of him. I miss his lips and his strong arms. I miss him.