#AmericanWriters
Love, death, sleeping with somebody else’s husband or wife-this is what poetry is about-Eskimo, Aztec,
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you
People who live by the sea understand eternity. They copy the curves of the waves, their hearts beat with the tides, & the saltiness of their blood
Exploring each other’s depths, that surge of connection which makes the world seem sane,
I am happiest near the ocean, where the changing light reminds me of my death & the fact that it need not be…
This constant ache is my leg’s message to me. ‘Hello. Hello. Hello. You’re getting there,' it says, ‘step by step.’
The experience of fear is not an o… —J. Krishnamurti In dreams I descend into the cave of my past: a child with a morgue-tag
Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.
It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books
All over the district, on leather… & brocade couches, on daybeds & ‘professional divans,’ they… The air is thick with it, the ears of analysts must be stick…
After the first astounding rush, after the weeks at the lake, the crystal, the clouds, the water… the snow breaking under our boots… & the long mornings in bed. .…
Next birthday I am thirty-six, & formed (for all intents & purposes) in tooth & claw.
Letting the mind go, letting the pen, the breath, the movement of images in & ou… of the mouth go calm, go rhythmic
If it is only for the taking off– the velvet cloak, the ostrich feather boa, the dress which slithers to the fl… with the sound of strange men sigh…
Boswell– you old rake– I have tri… your style; but it is no use; my d… all between my selves: and though… make endless notes and jottings th… my memory– it is in vain– for in t…