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"I think that’s one of the jobs of poets, is they stare at their own death, and through it they still see the world - the world of ten thousand things. You know poetry is about time running out, to some extent. You can think of that purely formally - the line ends, the stanza ends, and the poem itself ends. And I think one of the things that’s so pleasurable about reading poetry, rather than hearing it, is that you immediately know where the poem’s going to end. You can see it just in glancing at it. And there’s something… that may be reassuring about that."
- Dean Young -
SUBMISSION: Penguin Book Cover Re-Design #9, By Mahshed Hooshmand
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"Poetry is the place where language fights against words; it is the impossible struggle of language to go against its own limitations."
- Maria Negroni(Source: slcteacherisms, via pornosophical)
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"If you know what you are going to write when you’re writing a poem, it’s going to be average. Creating a poem is a continual process of re-creating your ignorance, in the sense of not knowing what’s coming next. A lot of poets historically have described a kind of trance. It’s not like a Vedic trance where your eyes cross, and you float. It’s a process not of knowing, but of unknowing, of learning again. The next word or phrase that’s written has to feel as if it’s being written for the first time, that you are discovering the meaning of the word as you put it down."
- Derek Walcott, as cited in Advice to Writers by Jon Winokur(Source: litverve)
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"Can’t I live in poems?"
- Leonard Cohen, On The Sickness Of My Love(Source: ahuntersheart, via hairypujols)
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High Resolution -
"the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters."- Adrienne Rich(Source: blackmarksonpaper)
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Adrienne Rich’s “Living in Sin”
She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman’s tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night’s cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf amoong the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own—
envoy from some village in the moldings…
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs. -
High Resolution -
(Source: blackbirdmcnight, via butterspy)
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William Shakespeare, Sonnet 37
(via slightlyseductive)
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Academy of American Poets ad from the back cover of Poetry’s February 1938 issue.
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When book covers for classics go horribly wrong,
Original commentary by mohawkcub
When Jane Eyre moves in with her aunt, the mysterious, cobalt-eyed impoverished aristocrat Danson Broodypants treats her with disdain. Can she charm the rogueish fellow in time before the supervulcanic eruption will wreak havoc on her life?
When Jane Eyre moves in with her father in a small, perpetually cloud-covered town, she feels isolated and alone at her new school. But she is drawn to the mysterious and sullen Edgard Whitebrood, who seems to hate everything she stands for. Can she sort out her feelings before the old family curse befalls her and she turns into a rose-eating creature of the night?
Yo, I’m a raven. I’ma read you this book.
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"I’ve always felt that poetry was particularly erotic, more than prose was. … I say that you read poems not with your eyes and not with your ears, but with your mouth. You taste it."
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High Resolution
LLIBRE
bog / boek / bók / libro / livro / leabhar / llyfr / raamat / könyv / kitab
