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375 books
—
758 voters
“One day you will take my heart completely and make it more fiery than a dragon. Your eyelashes will write on my heart the poem that could never come from the pen of a poet.”
―
―
“Even here in these sentences, I place my hands on your back and see how dark they are as they lie against the unchangeable white backdrop of your skin. Even now, I see … your waist and hips as I knead out the tensions, the small bones along your spine, a row of ellipses no silence translates. Even after all these years, the contrast between our skin surprises me–the way a blank page does when my hand, gripping a pen, begins to move through its spatial field, trying to act upon its life without marring it. But by writing, I mar it. I change, embellish, and preserve you all at once. — Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous (Penguin, 2019)”
― On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
― On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
“Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,
wind thrashing in the leaves, huge
ears, huge feathers,
like some chased animal, a giant
dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering
windows; from the tin roof
the rush of water.
I lie askew under the net,
tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.
When this clears there will be fireflies
& stars, brighter than anywhere,
which I could contemplate at times
of panic. Lightyears, think of it.
Screw poetry, it’s you I want,
your taste, rain
on you, mouth on your skin.
—Margaret Atwood, “Late Night”
―
wind thrashing in the leaves, huge
ears, huge feathers,
like some chased animal, a giant
dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering
windows; from the tin roof
the rush of water.
I lie askew under the net,
tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.
When this clears there will be fireflies
& stars, brighter than anywhere,
which I could contemplate at times
of panic. Lightyears, think of it.
Screw poetry, it’s you I want,
your taste, rain
on you, mouth on your skin.
—Margaret Atwood, “Late Night”
―
“Exquisite loneliness
Bound of mine own caprice
I fly on the wings of an unknown chord
That ye hear not,
Can not discern
My music is weird and untamed
Barbarous, wild, extreme,
I fly on the note that ye hear not
On the chord that ye can not dream.
— Ezra Pound, from “Anima Sola,” Collected Early Poems (New Directions, 1976)”
― Collected Early Poems
Bound of mine own caprice
I fly on the wings of an unknown chord
That ye hear not,
Can not discern
My music is weird and untamed
Barbarous, wild, extreme,
I fly on the note that ye hear not
On the chord that ye can not dream.
— Ezra Pound, from “Anima Sola,” Collected Early Poems (New Directions, 1976)”
― Collected Early Poems
“HER FINGERS TOYED ABSENTLY WITH HER RINGS
There are fallen angels in the way you look
And great bridges over silent streams at your smile.
Your gestures are a lonely princess dreaming over a book
At a window over a lake, on some distant isle.
If I were to stretch my hand and touch yours that would be
Dawn behind the turrets of a city in some East.
The words hidden in my gesture would be moonlight on the sea
Of your being something in my soul like gaiety in a feast.
Let your silence tell me of the numberless dreams that are you.
Let the drooping of your eyelids prolong landscapes far away.
The jets of water return on the listening of being untrue
And this is the flower I pluck, with a sound, from what you unsay.
Blossoms, blossoms, blossoms along the road of your going to speak.
Eighteenth century gardens, so sad in the middle of our drearning them now,
Are the way you are conscious of yourself on your eyelids, by your lips, through your cheek.
A sick child sees the rain blur through the window of what you allow.
Do not footfall the silence that is the palace where our consciousness
Is living at seeing gardens our duplicate lives of one soul.
What are we, in our dream of each other, but a picture which is
The masterpiece of a painter that never painted at all?
Fernando Pessoa, Poesia Inglesa (Organização e tradução de Luísa Freire. Prefácio de Teresa Rita Lopes.) Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 1995.”
―
There are fallen angels in the way you look
And great bridges over silent streams at your smile.
Your gestures are a lonely princess dreaming over a book
At a window over a lake, on some distant isle.
If I were to stretch my hand and touch yours that would be
Dawn behind the turrets of a city in some East.
The words hidden in my gesture would be moonlight on the sea
Of your being something in my soul like gaiety in a feast.
Let your silence tell me of the numberless dreams that are you.
Let the drooping of your eyelids prolong landscapes far away.
The jets of water return on the listening of being untrue
And this is the flower I pluck, with a sound, from what you unsay.
Blossoms, blossoms, blossoms along the road of your going to speak.
Eighteenth century gardens, so sad in the middle of our drearning them now,
Are the way you are conscious of yourself on your eyelids, by your lips, through your cheek.
A sick child sees the rain blur through the window of what you allow.
Do not footfall the silence that is the palace where our consciousness
Is living at seeing gardens our duplicate lives of one soul.
What are we, in our dream of each other, but a picture which is
The masterpiece of a painter that never painted at all?
Fernando Pessoa, Poesia Inglesa (Organização e tradução de Luísa Freire. Prefácio de Teresa Rita Lopes.) Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 1995.”
―
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