is wrapped silently in the snow’s winding sheet,
I hear—long, doleful, blood-curdling—the howl of wolves
To change your language you must change your life.
Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.
Tonight I think
Spring has returned! Everything has returned!
The earth, just like a schoolgirl, memorizes
Poems, so many poems.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
I smashed my sickening face
in the mirror
I love you — I said — I love you
I love you more than anything in the world
Raúl Zurita, from “Sunday Morning”
When it comes, you’ll be dreaming
that you don’t need to breathe;
that breathless silence is
the music of the dark
and it’s part of the rhythm
to vanish like a spark.
Remember, writing poetry is like making love: one will never know whether one’s own pleasure is shared.
Djuna Barnes, portrait, circa 1920s
Inscribed on verso: “I can operate in the dark — bodies are phosphorescent. I (See a condition of a poeta. Astreal light — condition of round & above a lovely spiritual message dearie.”), Photograph, 10.2 x 6.9 cm, Djuna Barnes Papers, Special Collections, University of Maryland Libraries. thanks to arttattler
I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough
to make every hour holy.
I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough
just to stand before you like a thing,
dark and shrewd.
I want my will, and I want to be with my will
as it moves towards deed;
and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times,
when something is approaching,
I want to be with those who are wise
or else alone.
To know the future
there must be a death.
Hand me the axe.
In the past we listened to photographs. They heard our voice speak.
Alive, active. What had been distance was memory.
The poem, even a short time after being written,
seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems
something beyond the capacity of the gods.