Posts Tagged ‘ Words ’

Words for Departure by Louise Bogan – Poems | Academy of American Poets

Words for Departure

Louise Bogan – 1897-1970


Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.
When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,
The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,
Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots
As among grotesque trees.

Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.
Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,
The afternoon sifted coolness
And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.
There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,
And dusk falling like precipitous water.

Hand clasped hand,
Forehead still bowed to forehead—
Nothing was lost, nothing possessed,
There was no gift nor denial.

I have remembered you.
You were not the town visited once,
Nor the road falling behind running feet.

You were as awkward as flesh
And lighter than frost or ashes.

You were the rind,
And the white-juiced apple,
The song, and the words waiting for music.

You have learned the beginning;
Go from mine to the other.

Be together; eat, dance, despair,
Sleep, be threatened, endure.
You will know the way of that.

But at the end, be insolent;
Be absurd—strike the thing short off;
Be mad—only do not let talk
Wear the bloom from silence.

And go away without fire or lantern.
Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.

Source: Words for Departure by Louise Bogan – Poems | Academy of American Poets

#11 decembrance 2018 – Rough Ideas

A New Poet
Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don’t see

its name in the flower books, and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way

its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled

red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day – the odor of truth
and of lying.

And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only

in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.

– Linda Pastan

Source: #11 decembrance 2018 – Rough Ideas

In the beginning was the word, and the word was embodied | Aeon Essays

Nurunuru? Reiko Takahashi, 78, prepares seaweed that she collects from the sea at the Tomari Port on 12 March 2013 in Minamisanriku, Japan. Photo by Athit Perawongmetha/Getty

Source: In the beginning was the word, and the word was embodied | Aeon Essays

Seamus Heaney | 3quarksdaily: Wednesday Poem

The First Words

[from the Romanian of Marin Sorescu]

The first words got polluted
Like river water in the morning
Flowing with the dirt
Of blurbs and the front pages.
My only drink is meaning from the deep brain,
What the birds and the grass and the stones drink.
Let everything flow
Up to the four elements,
Up to water and earth and fire and air.

by Seamus Heaney
from The Spirit Level
Farrar Straus Giroux, NY, 1996

Source: 3quarksdaily: Wednesday Poem

Butterfly Dream: Cliff’s Edge Haiku by Elliot Nicely – NeverEnding Story

Butterfly Dream: Cliff’s Edge Haiku by Elliot Nicely

Posted: 29 Sep 2017 05:01 AM PDT

English Original

where words fail pines along the cliff’s edge

Kokako, 22, 2015

Elliot Nicely

Chinese Translation (Traditional)


Chinese Translation (Simplified)


translation by Chen-ou Liu


Jean Valentine from Copper Canyon Press

copper-canyonKelly Forsythe, Director of Publicity at Copper Canyon Press:

“Don’t listen to the words—

they’re only little shapes for what you’re saying,

they’re only cups if you’re thirsty, you aren’t thirsty.”

— Jean Valentine, from the poem “as with rosy steps the morn,” from Break the Glass (Copper Canyon, 2010)

Clark Coolidge | Mythology of Blue

Words have a universe of qualities other than those of descriptive relation: Hardness, Density, Sound-Shape, Vector-Force, & Degrees of Transparency/Opacity.

— Clark Coolidge

Mythology of Blue.

Baby Can I hold you … Tracy Chapman.

A Longhouse Birdhouse: SONIA SANCHEZ ~


A Longhouse Birdhouse: SONIA SANCHEZ ~.

The World Seems by Gregory Orr | Academy of American Poets

The World Seems…

Gregory Orr