rose in midair

I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. - Jack Gilbert  For things to reveal themselves to us, we nee...

morning Rilke, for any Rilke is good Rilke. To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perh...

taking little sips of poetry to ready myself "Reduce by small increments your worry about the nature of compassion or the chill of em...

Muriel Rukeyser, on the  root of our resistance to poetry “However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now...

louise gluck. you're killing me, so good. title poem from her new book. "But what really is the point of the lighthouse? This is...

passed a street sign outside a bookstore in Chelsea today. it was advertising Louise Gluck's new book of poems, Faithful and Virtuous Ni...

today, S. sent this to me Concerning the Atoms of the Soul by John Glenday Someone explained once how the pieces of what we are fall ...

late night kerouac: We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self,...

hand written letter with drawings and everything. and this poem, which saved her, and maybe saves me too: Everyone who terrifies ...

T sent this to me over the weekend. perfect timing. your life is your life don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission. be on the watc...

oh man. oh man . it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as stat...

april drizzle.  windows open.  haven't felt like going dancing, and as B said the other night, "if you have even a sliver of doub...

Leave the dishes. Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor. Leave the ...

I am listening to the ice against the window, in the middle of April. Snow is illuminated beneath the street lamps. Earlier, I was walkin...

hmmm. In poetry, the number of beginnings so far exceeds the number of endings that we cannot even conceive it. Not every poem is finishe...

“This is not a poem. This is a 3 a.m. phone call to 911 from the back of a stranger’s trunk. This is a prayer. This is a bar napkin se...

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo's cry, 5-7-5, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description o...

notes: - the trip to Real de Catorce, reminded by an entire newspaper article convincing me of reasons why i need to go back to San Luis Po...

Persimmons Li-Young Lee In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the di...