Whatever I meant

to say loses itself in the bend of winter
towards extinction, this passion of shadows falling

like black orchids through the air. I never meant
to leave you there by the pane, that

terminal hotel, the world shuddering with trains.

—Lynda Hull, from “Black Mare,” in Star Ledger (University of Iowa Press, 1990)

(via apoetreflects:)


You, my own deep soul,
trust me. I will not betray you.
My blood is alive with many voices
telling me I am made of longing.

What mystery breaks over me now?
In its shadow I come into life.
For the first time I am alone with you—

you, my power to feel.


Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours I, 39

(via tectusregis)


It is a two-way traffic,

the language of the unsaid.


Anne Carson, from The Glass Essay

(via violentwavesofemotion)


Your love is your curse.

This black fact’s yours.


Ashley Anna McHugh, from Of This Burning Heart

(via violentwavesofemotion)

"…and the air
Was like the air after a fire, or the air before a storm,
Ungodly still, but full of dark shapes turning."

Brigit Pegeen Kelly, The Dragon

(via korroh)

"You want to believe
you can turn emotion’s flood
into living waters
from which you’ll emerge whole,
dazzling like the sun."

Rachel Barenblat, from Standing At The Edge

(via violentwavesofemotion)

"I fear those shadows most
That start from my own feet."

Theodore Roethke, from The Surly One

(via violentwavesofemotion)

"The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. The trees imagine they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The arrows: they have no imagination."

Richard Siken, The Stag and the Quiver, published on The Awl

(via bostonpoetryslam)

But this dark is deep:

now I warm you with my blood, listen

to this flesh.

It is far truer than poems.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from Poem of the End (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

(via awritersruminations:)

Love is flesh, it is a

     flower flooded with blood.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from Poem of the End (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

(via awritersruminations:)

"They should listen to the unsaid words that resonate around the edge of the poem."

"From the window I listened to the second story of elm trees rustling, wordless, oceanlike.  So much of what has soothed me has not been human.  I drank in the sound, fantasized about love and death until the 11 o’clock freight train rumbled along the edge of town and how I let myself drift into that funneling."

—Jennifer K. Sweeney, from “What Call,” in How to Live on Bread and Music (Perugia Press, 2009)

(via apoetreflects:)

"The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they’re only a few steps behind you."

Richard Siken

(via rhetoriques)

(Source: rarararambles)


Being but men, we walked into the trees
Afraid, letting our syllables be soft
For fear of waking the rooks,
For fear of coming
Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.

If we were children we might climb,
Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,
And, after the soft ascent,
Thrust out our heads above the branches
To wonder at the unfailing stars.

Out of confusion, as the way is,
And the wonder, that man knows,
Out of the chaos would come bliss.

That, then, is loveliness, we said,
Children in wonder watching the stars,
Is the aim and the end.

Being but men, we walked into the trees.


Dylan Thomas, Being But Men

(via hiddenshores)

"We cross borders lightly
like clouds.
Nothing carries us,
but as we move on
we carry rain,
and an accent,
and a memory
of another place."
Dunya Mikhail, from “Tablets,” in Poetry (Vol. CCIII, No. 6, March 2014)

(Source: literarymiscellany)