And here’s how it ends:
Above the smoke from the late mowers,
A barbecue of stars, a moon
Like gin and tonic on the rocks,
And you in your peacock robe,
That ripples on the limbs and then
Drains down behind you.
I could say my love
Stays longer than
The six dynasties of China, rising
As if I’d lunched on
Goat glands and supped on monkey nuts—
But who would believe that?
All right, I’m the
Runt of summer, rotting in the haze,
A mind of mildew and the red
Hinges of the heart
It’s the tail end of the season,
The light short and the nights impatient with
A traffic of sticky shadows.
The hot rain
Cuts in on the bias, and I can’t
Tell it from my own excited sweat.
Sloppy in the trees
Will soon bring down the weatherglass
To the first pall of frost.
And what flags
Will the streets fly then,
If not white for surrender, or black
For the piracies of fall?
from “Last Poem of Summer,” in Winter Amnesties
(Southern Illinois University Press, 2000)
"But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot."
Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid’s Tale)
And any meaning, use, or plot is self-manufactured… This seems the greatest human talent of all, the ability to design a purpose which is utterly convincing to oneself. For many it is solely the ability to breed successfully—not only providing that easily-attained “purpose” but a group of those ready to swear to your meaning, purpose, and plot—the creation of them.
"A sculptor is a person who is interested in the shape of things, a poet in words, a musician by sounds."
Henry Moore (sculptor)
[…] All day
this rain without
you—so many planes
above the cloud line
either closer or
farther away from
one another while
you and I remain
grounded. Are we
finer that what the day
might bring or is this
an illusion, a stay
—Timothy Liu, from “Holding Pattern” in Poem A Day. February 19, 2014
"This was love: a string of coincidences that gathered significance and became miracles."
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie,
“Half of a Yellow Sun”
"There is no shame in being hungry for another person. There is no shame in wanting very much to share your life with somebody."
Augusten Burroughs (via lafillesensible
"Beginnings are brutal, like this accident
of stars colliding, mute explosions
of colorful gases, the mist and dust
that would become our bodies
hurling through black holes, rising,
muck ridden, from pits of tar and clay.
Back then it was easy to have teeth,
claw our ways into the trees — it was
accepted, the monkeys loved us, sat
on their red asses clapping and laughing.
We’ve forgotten the luxury of dumbness,
how once we crouched naked on an outcrop
of rock, the moon huge and untouched
above us, speechless. Now we talk
about everything, incessantly,
our moans and grunts turned on a spit
into warm vowels and elegant consonants.
We say plethora, demitasse, ozone and love.
We think we know what each sound means.
There are times when something so joyous
or so horrible happens our only response
is an intake of breath, and hen
we’re back at the truth of it,
that ball of life expanding
and exploding on impact, our heads,
our chest, filled with that first
Each Sound, Dorianne Laux
"My story isn’t sweet and harmonious like invented stories. It tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves."
~Hermann Hesse (via armchairoxfordscholar
"I realise there’s something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they’re experts at letting things go."
~Jeffrey McDaniel (via armchairoxfordscholar