Every word is a doorway
to a meeting, one often cancelled,
and that’s when a word is true: when it insists on the meeting.
Yannis Ritsos, from “The Meaning of Simplicity,” The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (Ecco, 2010)
See how the past is finished
here in the present
it is awake the whole time
it is my hand now but not what I held
it is what I remember
but it never seems quite the same
no one else remembers it
a house long gone into air
the flutter of tires over a brick road
cool light in a vanished bedroom
the flash of the oriole
between one line and another
the river a child watched
— W. S. Merwin, from “My Hand”, in The Shadow of Sirius (Copper Canyon Press, 2009) (via hiddenshores)
Max Clarenbach (German, 1880-1952), Winter an der Erft
The world feels like this today. ~Lise
The world can never
Own a man
Who wants nothing.
such letting go is love
such love is faith
such faith is grace
such grace is god.
i agree with the leaves.
Freedom. It isn’t once, to walk out
under the Milky Way, feeling the rivers
of light, the fields of dark—
freedom is daily, prose-bound, routine
remembering. Putting together, inch by inch
the starry worlds. From all the lost collections.
— Adrienne Rich, from “For Memory,” Selected poems, 1950-1995 (Salmon Publishing, 1951)