I feel like I’m swimming in a roiling sea full of words. Wonderful, arcane, English-majorish, bet you’ll have to look up that one and double-dog dare you to try and pronounce this one, words. Continue reading →
What does poetry do? Nothing and everything, like air, water, soil, like birds, fish, trees, like love, spirit, our daily words … It lives with us, in and outside us, everywhere, all the time, and yet, we are too often oblivious of this gift. It’s a poet’s job to bring this gift out and back, this gift that makes us human again. – Wang Ping (writing about Ghassan Zaqtan, translated by Fady Joudah) Continue reading →
Now this little thing you see very simply as I wrote it––night, evening, snowstorm, woods, dark, late, snow falling among the alders, and trees, and with a little poetic exaggeration, you know (to see the woods fill up with snow). Did they fill up? How high? See. You want to know. Don’t ask me. Continue reading →
To a woman, trying to return a book
received as a Christmas gift, having no receipt. Continue reading →
Via abebooks, a little non-light reading. You need The Complete Works to go with it, as the author goes through all the sonnets.
How is it possible that a being with such sensitive jewels as the eyes, such enchanted musical instruments as the ears, and such fabulous arabesque of nerves as the brain can experience itself anything less than a god.
