Quote
We will meet again
in the lake
you as water
I as lotus blossom
You will carry me
I will drink you
We will belong to each other
in everyone’s sight
Even the stars
will be surprised
here are two beings
transformed back
into their dream
that chose them.
— Rose Ausländer, “Love VI” (translated by Vincent Homolka)
(Source: awritersruminations)
Photo
Love’s like a landscape which doth stand
Smooth at a distance, rough at hand;
Or like a fire which from afar
Doth gently warm, consumes when near.
Hegge
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Today’s Birthday Quote
Freedom - an occupied space which must be reoccupied every day.
John Ralston Saul
via The Random Sampler.
Quote
Your body is away from me,
but there is a window open
from my heart to yours.
From this window, like the moon,
I keep sending news secretly.”
— Rumi
but there is a window open
from my heart to yours.
From this window, like the moon,
I keep sending news secretly.”
— Rumi
— (via youwhisperlifeintomysoul)
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And think not you can
Direct the course of love,
For love,
If it finds you worthy,
Directs your course.
- Gibran Kahlil Gibran
Text
A mimosa leans
From her folding screen of green,
Pink kimono tease.—Greg Sellers, from work-in-progress (2013)
via A Poet Reflects.
Quote
Not speaking of the way,
Not thinking of what comes after,
Not questioning name or fame,
Here, loving love,
You and I look at each other.
Not thinking of what comes after,
Not questioning name or fame,
Here, loving love,
You and I look at each other.
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I Am Offering this Poem
I am offering this poem to you,
since I have nothing else to give.
Keep it like a warm coat
when winter comes to cover you,
or like a pair of thick socks
the cold cannot bite through,
I love you,
I have nothing else to give you,
so it is a pot full of yellow corn
to warm your belly in winter,
it is a scarf for your head, to wear
over your hair, to tie up around your face,
I love you,
Keep it, treasure this as you would
if you were lost, needing direction,
in the wilderness life becomes when mature;
and in the corner of your drawer,
tucked away like a cabin or hogan
in dense trees, come knocking,
and I will answer, give you directions,
and let you warm yourself by this fire,
rest by this fire, and make you feel safe
I love you,
It’s all I have to give,
and all anyone needs to live,
and to go on living inside,
when the world outside
no longer cares if you live or die;
remember,
I love you.
Jimmy Santiago Baca, “I Am Offering this Poem” from Immigrants in Our Own Land and Selected Early Poems.
Photo
For Love
Yesterday I wanted to
speak of it, that sense above
the others to me
important because all
that I know derives
from what it teaches me.
Today, what is it that
is finally so helpless,
different, despairs of its own
statement, wants to
turn away, endlessly
to turn away.
If the moon did not …
no, if you did not
I wouldn’t either, but
what would I not
do, what prevention, what
thing so quickly stopped.
That is love yesterday
or tomorrow, not
now. Can I eat
what you give me. I
have not earned it. Must
I think of everything
as earned. Now love also
becomes a reward so
remote from me I have
only made it with my mind.
Here is tedium,
despair, a painful
sense of isolation and
whimsical if pompous
self-regard. But that image
is only of the mind’s
vague structure, vague to me
because it is my own.
Love, what do I think
to say. I cannot say it.
What have you become to ask,
what have I made you into,
companion, good company,
crossed legs with skirt, or
soft body under
the bones of the bed.
Nothing says anything
but that which it wishes
would come true, fears
what else might happen in
some other place, some
other time not this one.
A voice in my place, an
echo of that only in yours.
Let me stumble into
not the confession but
the obsession I begin with
now. For you
also (also)
some time beyond place, or
place beyond time, no
mind left to
say anything at all,
that face gone, now.
Into the company of love
it all returns.
Robert Creeley, “For Love” from Selected Poems of Robert Creeley
Text
The End of Science Fiction
This is not fantasy, this is our life.
We are the characters
who have invaded the moon,
who cannot stop their computers.
We are the gods who can unmake
the world in seven days.
Both hands are stopped at noon.
We are beginning to live forever,
in lightweight, aluminum bodies
with numbers stamped on our backs.
We dial our words like Muzak.
We hear each other through water.
The genre is dead. Invent something new.
Invent a man and a woman
naked in a garden,
invent a child that will save the world,
a man who carries his father
out of a burning city.
Invent a spool of thread
that leads a hero to safety,
invent an island on which he abandons
the woman who saved his life
with no loss of sleep over his betrayal.
Invent us as we were
before our bodies glittered
and we stopped bleeding:
invent a shepherd who kills a giant,
a girl who grows into a tree,
a woman who refuses to turn
her back on the past and is changed to salt,
a boy who steals his brother’s birthright
and becomes the head of a nation.
Invent real tears, hard love,
slow-spoken, ancient words,
difficult as a child’s
first steps across a room.
Lisel Mueller
“The End of Science Fiction” from Alive Together: New and Selected Poems.
