“All day I think about it, then at night I say it. Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing? I have no idea. My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that, and I intend to end up there.”—Rumi (via human-voices)
“Alive in the slippery moonlight,
how easily you managed
to hold yourself upright
on your small heels.
You emerged from your image
on the smooth fields
as if held back from flight by a hinge.
I used to find you
balanced on your visible ghost
holding it down by a corner. The blind
stain crawled, fawning, about you.
Your body staked its shadow like a post.
Gone, you leave nothing behind,
not a toe to hold steady or true
your image which lives in my mind.”—
“I might feel, and I do feel, that in order to write poetry seriously one must take seriously the reality of the soul. A word reflects us back to our own condition, a symbol. ‘Every word was once a poem.’”—
Dan Beachy-Quick, “A January Notebook”, Evening Will Come, April 2011 (with thanks to leopoldgursky)
“She was not good on the phone. She needed the face, the pattern of eyes, nose, trembling mouth… People talking were meant to look at a face, the disastrous cupcake of it, the hide-and-seek of the heart dashing across. With a phone, you said words, but you never watched them go in.”—Lorrie Moore (via Confuzzzled)
an old Native American grandfather was talking to his grandson. He said, “There are two wolves fighting inside all of us - the wolf of fear and hate, and the wolf of love and peace.” The grandson listened, then looked up at his grandfather and asked, “Which one will win?” The grandfather replied, “The one we feed.”
and you dropped the note and we changed key you changed yourself and i changed me i really didn’t see us singing through this then you screamed the bridge and i cried the verse and our chorus came out unrehearsed and you smiled the whole way through it i guess maybe that’s what’s worse
“And even when the trees have just surrendered
To the harvest time
Forfeiting their leaves in late September
And sending us inside
Still I notice You when change begins
And I am braced for colder winds
I will offer thanks for what has been and was to come
You are autumn”—
“People have scars. In all sorts of unexpected places. Like secret roadmaps of their personal histories. Diagrams of all their old wounds. Most of our wounds heal, leaving nothing behind but a scar. But some of them don’t. Some wounds we carry with us everywhere and though the cut’s long gone, the pain still lingers.”—
“But I have a nightmare to tell: I am trying to say
that to be with my people is my dearest wish
but that I also love strangers
that I crave separateness
I hear myself stuttering these words
to my worst friends and my best enemies
who watch for my mistakes in grammar
my mistakes in love.
This is the day of atonement; but do my people forgive me?
If a cloud knew loneliness and fear, I would be that cloud.”—
“… I already loved you in some vague wherever, and that my nostalgia for that love makes everything in my present life a tedium. Perhaps you are just my nostalgia for something, an embodiment of some absence, the presence of some Distance …”—Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet (translated by Robert Zenith)