poetry

& the words pollinated the dark, there was darkness there,
like the after-hours inside a library

Carolina Ebeid, closing lines to “You Ask Me to Talk About the Interior,” Colorado Review (Summer 2014)

(Source: apoetreflects)

He is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me.

—Maggie Stiefvater, from The Scorpio Races (via the-final-sentence)

Listen to me. I am telling you
a true thing. This is the only kingdom.
The kingdom of touching;
the touches of the disappearing, things.

Aracelis Girmay, from “Elegy”, in Kingdom Animalia (via hiddenshores)

(via wastedseductions)

Or else, to go on. Or else, to begin again. Or else, to go on, as if each moment were the beginning, as if each word were the beginning of another silence, another word more silent than the last.

Paul Auster, White Spaces (via robcam-wfu)

(via 4thsoul)

The heart shuts,
The sea slides back,
The mirrors are sheeted.

—Sylvia Plath, “Contusion,” from The Collected Poems   (via funeralfaerie)

(Source: lifeinpoetry, via sarah-strand)

You stood there and the stones
Of Old Greece and our lives, those collegiate stones,
Harvard, Emory, and Marymount, with the blue exegesis of the tide
Against which to fall was a headline—Don’t stand.
You gave this wish to me—Apollo, in some manner of time, lives on. Inside your mind
Things are being washed.

—Kenneth Koch, from “With Janice” (via uutpoetry)

For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.

—Vladimir Nabokov, The Eye (via lesangfroid)

(Source: assemblage2011, via wastedseductions)

The golden age is not in the past, but in the future; not in the origin of human experience, but in its consummate flower; not opening in Eden, but out from Gethsemane.

—Edwin Hubbell Chapin (via itsquoted)

(via gnostix1)