The words you speak become the house you live in.
—Hafiz (via lazyyogi)
there is a poet crying. she read her poem earlier,
now it is not her turn to read. it’s her time to cry.
perhaps the cheap cardboard wine loosened a sad memory,
sent it spilling onto the floor, a moan leaking from her eyes.
the other poets ignore her, embarrassed. dictionaries with hair.
bower birds of words. after all, she’s had her turn.
besides, they prefer their emotions to be distilled to an essence,
boiled away to leave a black residue on white paper.
“They’d never been lovers, of course, not in the physical sense. But they’d been lovers as most of us manage, loving through expressions and gestures and the palm set softly upon the bruise at the necessary moment. Lovers by inclination rather than by lust. Lovers, that is, by love.”
— Gregory Maguire, Out of Oz
Not my voice, but my silence.
—Anna Akhmatova, trans. M. M. Kralin, quoted by Judith Hemschemeyer, in The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova (via volaream)
Do you have hope for the future?
someone asked Robert Frost, toward the end.
Yes, and even for the past, he replied,
that it will turn out to have been all right
for what it was, something we can accept,
mistakes made by the selves we had to be,
not able to be, perhaps, what we wished,
or what looking back half the time it seems
we could so easily have been, or ought…
The future, yes, and even for the past,
that it will become something we can bear.
David Ray, “Thanks, Robert Frost.”
هي لا تحبك، يعجبها مجازك
أنت شاعرها و هذا كل ما في الأمر
—Mahmoud Darwish, from “She Does Not Love You” in Almond Blossoms and Beyond (Ka-zahr al-lawz aw ab’ad), trans. by Mohammad Shaheen. Interlink Pub Group, 2009