Tim Seibles, from “Mosaic,” in Poetry (Vol. CCIII, No. 6, March 2014)
“Did you mean to be this way?
Did you mean to become
something you didn’t mean?”
The moon is a loyal companion.
It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.
Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.
Jill Alexander Essbaum, from The Devastation (Cooper Dillon Books, 2009)
So the first shall be lost.
And the thirst shall be lasting.
I fast but to speed on the end.
No if but when.
(Is there no benediction for the skin?)
Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena
“Aren’t our eyes made to be torn out, and our hearts for the same purpose? At the same time it’s really not that bad; that’s an exaggeration and a lie, everything is exaggeration, the only truth is longing. But even the truth of longing is not so much its own truth; it’s really an expression for everything else, which is a lie. This sounds crazy and distorted, but it’s true. Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most - you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love. This, my dear, is love.”
Six Word Story (#12)
“I drank until you weren’t real.”
Gregory Orr, "The Sweater," from The Caged Owl: New and Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2002)
“I will lose you. It is written
into this poem the way
the fisherman’s wife knits
his death into the sweater.”
George Steiner, from the essay “Silence and the Poet,” in Language and Silence: Essays on Language, Literature, and the Inhuman (Atheneum, 1967)
“But there is a third mode of trancendence: in it language simply ceases, and the motion of spirit gives no further outward manifestation of its being. The poet enters into silence. Here the word borders not on radiance or music, but on night.”