A Handwritten Note, Scrawled In Arabic On A Torn Cigarette Pack, Was Discovered On The Ground Last Week

from behind a / pillar / of unarrived / moments

- Zofia Zarębianka, tr. Regina Grol

I often see how you sob over what you destroy, how you want to stop, and then a moment later you are at it again with a knife, like a surgeon.

Anaïs Nin, Henry and June

to want and to wonder are parallel actions

- Jessica Fisher, Anne Carson’s Stereoscopic Poetics

The rain hovering over the city for days  finally fell. You were arriving after years...

Garous Abdolmalekian, Meeting tr. Ahmed Nadalizadeh and Idra Novey

Dum pudeo pereo (as I blush, I die) says an old love song. Blood rushes to the face, at the same time the heart seems to wither on itself and snap,

Anne Carson, Kinds of Water

Does the earth fill the mouths of the dead to stop them from describing what they've seen?

Garous Abdolmalekian, Long Poem of Loneliness tr. Ahmed Nadalizadeh and Idra Novey

we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person.

- Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“I am the ocean; the earth; whatever dies for you.”

— Alice Notley, from In The Pines: Poems; “The Black Trailor (A Noir Fiction),” (via loveage-moondream)

and how it's hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.

Ada Limón, Mowing

thinking about Kait Rokowski writing, "nothing ever ends poetically, it ends and we turn it into poetry. all that blood was never once beautiful. it was just red." and losing it