Louise Glück, from “March”, Poems 1962-2012
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@ink-and-quills
Louise Glück, from “March”, Poems 1962-2012
Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by P. A. Bien, from “Report To Greco,” publ. c. 1961
History is a song, a cruel anthem / my nameless lovers mouth all the words of. / Confession: I rarely survive the night / in the biome of a man’s longing. What / has been lost doesn’t ask to be unlost. / Love’s work is always slow, painstaking. We’re / allowed forgetfulness.
Billy-Ray Belcourt, from “Canadian Sonnet,” NDN Coping Mechanisms (via lifeinpoetry)
The hand of the lover of the wind / caresses the face of the absent one.
Alejandra Pizarnik, from “Caroline de Gunderode,” quoted in Modern Argentine Poetry: Exile, Displacement, Migration by Ben Bollig (University of Wales Press, 2011)
Saskia Bauemeister
Franz Kafka, Diaries, 1910-1923
“Don’t question Allah’s mercy. Just ask for it and you’ll find it.”
— Shaykh Omar Suleiman
The body remembers. The body wants to have its own relationship. The mind will have to say something about it afterward, or, sometimes the mind doesn’t have to say anything at all.
Amina Cain, from “Gentle Nights,” Creature (via lifeinpoetry)
Ada Limón, from “Lashed to the Helm, All Stiff and Stark”, Bright Dead Things
“who taught me my life was not my own / who taught me to take nothing”
— Anne Michaels, from All We Saw: Poems
“Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and they will come forth, later, in uglier ways.”
— Sigmund Freud
E.E. Cummings, Complete Poems, 1904-1962
“There is no such thing as early or late in life,” Aziz said. “Everything happens at the right time.”
لا يوجد شيء يحدث في وقت مبكر أو متأخر في الحياة. كل شيء يحدث في الوقت المناسب
— The Forty Rules of Love | Elif Shafak
I want to stay on the back porch while the world tilts toward sleep, until what I love misses me, and calls me in.
— Dorianne Laux, from “On the Back Porch,” Only As the Day Is Long: New and Selected Poems
Strange how we decorate pain.
Margaret Atwood (via quotemadness)
Sometimes even my face is a surprise. I walk out happy, but someone comes up on the street and asks what’s wrong. I think of last night’s dream: my father alive again at the table, a baby crying, pages falling from the sky like rain, and then like leaves needing to be raked, put in order. I can see which way the signs point, but who would want to go there?
from “Burials”, Susan Ludvigson (via kingsoftheimpossible)
Photography: “A visual impaired old man (left) recites the Holy Quran by heart as his colleague checks for any recitation mistakes.“ Oman. by Abdulrahman Alhinai