There is a code among the dying: let the living speak. They have longer to atone for it.
“Poem for My Mother Come here, Mama, we’ll keep each other company, Like the tiles of our house, Like the trees at our house, Like Jesus and Joseph and the mother of God. Come here, Mama, we’ll talk to each other Of things that happen in the forest, at night, Of things that happen in the heart, at night, Of lightning that scorches the sky. Come here, Mama, we’ll sing together Melodies that put sobbing to sleep, Songs that make the dead dance, Tunes that comfort, bring joy.”
― When I Sing, Mountains Dance
― When I Sing, Mountains Dance
“After reciting my verses, I always pause for a small moment. After the words have echoed, after my voice has touched everything, and filled the spaces between all things, I am silent. To separate the poem from the rest. And I listen. The poet speaks. The poet proclaims. But the poet also listens. A bird or two. The air that once again stakes its claim as lord and master of the space between the leaves. The thin whistle the world makes, at the bottom of every ear …”
― When I Sing, Mountains Dance
― When I Sing, Mountains Dance
“Ireland is so saturated with green that it's the things that not green catch one's eye: the roads, walls, shorelines, even sheep, seem to have been placed as contrast, strategically positioned to organize the vast expansion of green... In Ireland, you can bask in fact that you have been benevolently outnumbered by these first and better life forms. Standing in a peat bog in Dingle, you can not help wondering what Ireland was like before you and other primates scrambled upon its shore.”
― Lab Girl
― Lab Girl
Diana’s 2025 Year in Books
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