since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings (via ncsmnt)

(via journalofanobody)

the-final-sentence:

June 21 - Anne Carson

Bio: Anne Carson is a poet, translator, essayist, and professor with a background in classical languages, anthropology, history, and comparative literature. [1] Her poetry, fiction, and nonfiction work has been labelled “unclassifiable”, “a blend of genres and styles”. [2, 4] This is because her writing is informed by her knowledge in multiple academic fields. Her poetry is rich in allusions. [3] Her list of works includes the critically-acclaimed Short Talks (1992), Plainwater (1995), Glass, Irony and God (1995), The Autobiography of Red (1998), The Beauty of the Husband (2002) and red doc> (2013).

Anecdotes:

  • Carson has admitted that she did not begin writing seriously until her twenties. To critic Stephen Burt: “I didn’t write very much at all until I guess my twenties because I drew. I just drew pictures, and sometimes wrote on them when I was young, but mostly I was interested in drawing. I never did think of myself as a writer!” [2]
  • Carson wanted to learn ancient Greek because she wanted to be like Oscar Wilde: educated, elegant, and witty. [5] So strong was this desire in her adolescent years that she and her friends dressed as Wilde and dedicated lunchtimes to the memorisation of his aphorisms. [6]
  • Carson was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship in 2000. When asked whether the award changed her life, she answered, “I think I bought some socks.” [6]
  • Carson enjoys being alone. When her husband, Robert Currie, is travelling, she calls him to say, “I miss you, but I’m having a great time.” [5]
  • Carson is obsessed with volcanoes. [5]

Final sentences:

And now time is rushing towards them where they stand side by side with arms touching, immortality on their faces,
night at their back.

from “The Autobiography of Red

It walked out of the light.

from “The Glass Essay

The way to hold on is 

afterwords
so
clear.

from “New Rule

Desires as round as peaches bloom in me all night, I no longer gather what falls.

from “Short Talk on Hedonism

They are victims of love, many of them.

from “Short Talk on Walking Backwards“ 

How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.

David Foster Wallace, The Pale King (via larmoyante)

vega-ofthe-lyre:

Margaret Atwood, “The poet has come back”

(via lifeinpoetry)

I Like For You to Be Still

apoemaday:

by Pablo Neruda

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: melancholy

I like for you to be still
And you seem far away
It sounds as though you are lamenting
A butterfly cooing like a dove
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not reach you
Let me come to be still in your silence
And let me talk to you with your silence
That is bright as a lamp
Simple, as a ring
You are like the night
With its stillness and constellations
Your silence is that of a star
As remote and candid

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would’ve died
One word then, one smile is enough
And I’m happy;
Happy that it’s not true

I must write sad poems about
how my heart is a chipped mug
or a wailing church organ
so that you nod and say,
Yes, and mine. And I must also
write happy poems about waking
with him like knotted rope
because things are good
more often than they are not.

Anna Meister, from “Responsibility, an Ars Poetica,” in The Legendary (Issue 36)

(via apoetreflects)

Those nights lying alone
are not discontinuous with this cold hectic dawn.
It is who I am.

Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay” (via proustitute)

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.

There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

Pablo Neruda, “A Song of Despair” (via larmoyante)

And if I cried, who’d listen to me in those angelic
orders? Even if one of them suddenly held me
to his heart, I’d vanish in his overwhelming
presence. Because beauty’s nothing
but the start of terror we can hardly bear,
and we adore it because of the serene scorn
it could kill us with. Every angel’s terrifying.

[Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies, First Elegy] (via fjolsvior)

(via journalofanobody)

awritersruminations:

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

— Anne Sexton, from “The Truth the Dead Know