"How can you hide from what never goes away?"

                                        “Nothing perilous
had come to find us. What was ours was ours.”

 -Michael Heffernan, from “Awake”

via needful

"I think the whole earth breathes with you. After all this,

these words are all I have to say what is impossible to think,

what shy dreams hide in the rafters of my heart, because

these words are only a form of touch, only tell you I have no life

that isn’t yours, and no death you couldn’t turn into a life."

-Richard Jackson, from "After All This"
via needful
Roses, Gerhard Richter

"‘I need a little language such as lovers use, words of one syllable,’ writes Virginia Woolf in The Waves. ‘I need a howl; a cry… I need no words.’ In The Voyage Out, she writes: ‘I want to write a novel about Silence.’

-Gretchen Henderson, On Marvellous Things Heard

"

psychoza: chagalov | entregulistanybostan | manuallabours Samuel Beckett’s Watt manuscript on display as part of Fathoms From Anywhere 

"I keep going, staring

into the abyss, and wonder if there's some halfway point out in the Pacific,
 
perhaps the same spot they say the international date line is, where a wall like this,
 
only thousands of feet deeper, divides the earth into two distinct pieces, I wonder if

anyone has ever tried to pull herself down to see if there's a doorway there,

somewhere, and I want to know if anyone has ever really gotten

to the bottom of anything in this world without dying."

-Liza Porter, from "The Wall"

"You have often accused me of not forming any relationship with your poems. Please, I ask you to abandon this notion – and I say that not because of this poem alone, but also for the others. Sometimes I live and breathe only through them.”

Ingeborg Bachmann to Paul Celan, Vienna, 10 November-16 December 1957, in Correspondence.

"

"I will not weep

about your going until you pull out
of the drive. I will not lie at dawn,
arm draped across your chest,

leg flung over yours and grieve
the sun. And later, when you are gone
and I empty of you, I will invite

something into the void: an iris
from the garden, an image, still warm,
the willful insistence of a poem.”
-Pit Menousek Pinegar, from “Aubade"