For gathering against silence, from The House on Marshland.
from The School Children / Louise Glück
The children go forward with their little satchels.
And all morning the mothers have labored
to gather the late apples, red and gold,
like words of another language.
For artists can be figures of speech too, from Black Aperture.
from Monet as a Verb / by Matt Rasmussen
or the one
after another
that Monet the
city behind
the window.
For walking alone, from The Star by My Head: Poets from Sweden.
from Visitor / by Bruno K. Öijer
and my head spanned the night
where a star continually fell
out of my mouth rain emerged
like a brittle and deserted ringing from
a little clock made of brass
For sometimes it does seem that night dreams have lives of their own, from Up Country: Poems of New England. For this book, Kumin shared illustrator Barbara Swan with her friend, Anne Sexton.
from The Dreamer, The Dream / by Maxine Kumin
and all this they do in secret
climbing behind his back
lumbering from their dark fissure
going up like a dream going on
For every animal, place, color, and weather is poetry if you look for it, from There’s the Hand and There’s the Arid Chair.
from The Suns / by Tomaž Šalamun
Lie down, little doe!
Rest in peace and mew.
It’s warm in the snow.
Where is my voice?
For when it’s your birthday, you get to choose a favorite moment of poetic prose and call it, not “purple prose,” but poetry, from The Sound and the Fury.
from The Sound and the Fury: April Eighth 1928 / by William Faulkner
She wore a stiff black straw hat perched upon her turban, and a maroon velvet cape with a border of mangy and anonymous fur above a dress of purple silk, and she stood in the door for awhile with her myriad and sunken face lifted to the weather, and one gaunt hand flac-soled as the belly of a fish, then she moved the cape aside and examined the bosom of her gown.
For does grief global, religious, or personal, ever feel lighter than the moment it found you? From Emily Dickinson: Selected Poems.
from Griefs / by Emily Dickinson
I wonder if when years have piled —
Some thousands — on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause
For those who believe love speaks for itself and should not be given or taken on demand, from the Folio text, 2008, in The Norton Shakespeare: Tragedies, Based on the Oxford Edition, 2nd edition.
from King Lear / by William Shakespeare
Cordelia Nothing, my lord.
Lear Nothing?
Cordelia Nothing.
Lear Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again.
For moments which pass so quickly, from The Widening Spell of the Leaves.
from The Spell of the Leaves / by Larry Levis
On Sundays, hiking, the boy finds wildflowers.
They look them up in a field guide before
She places them, like stillness itself, in a vase —
For seeking life in the middle of everything, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Sanctuary / by Jean Valentine
Yes I know: the thread you have to keep finding, over again, to
follow it back to life; I know. Impossible, sometimes.
poetry, publishing, and mentoring
A periodic, open discussion of particular poems
a resource for moving poetry
from lined paper, to Royal, to Smith Corona, to floppy disk, to 1TB hard drive...it's all a result of the passing wind.
Writer & Visual Artist
Reading Around The World
A blog about books, writing and mental health
a journal of contemporary poetry
Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.
Global issues, travel, photography & fashion. Drifting across the globe; the world is my oyster, my oyster through a lens.
Rare Books from 1st Editions and Antiquarian Books
"I am offering this poem to you, since I have nothing else to give." ~Jimmy Santiago Baca
another site about the arts and writing ...
Fine traditional letterpress printing and hand bookbinding.
"We're all out there, somewhere, waiting to happen."
Daily Poetry Fragments {Semi-Daily} 