"When I suddenly see myself in the depths of the mirror, I take fright. I can scarcely believe that I have limits, that I am outlined and defined. I feel myself to be dispersed in the atmosphere, thinking inside other creatures, living inside things beyond myself. When I suddenly see myself in the mirror, I am not startled because I find myself ugly or beautiful. I discover, in fact, that I possess another quality. When I haven’t looked at myself for some time, I almost forget that I am human, I tend to forget my past, and I find myself with the same deliverance from purpose and conscience as something that is barely alive. I am also surprised to find as I gaze into the pale mirror with open eyes that there is so much in me beyond what is known, so much that remains ever silent."
―Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart
―Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart
"There is a girl inside.
She is randy as a wolf.
She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.
She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a greeen girl in a used poet.
She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it."
―Lucille Clifton
She is randy as a wolf.
She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.
She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a greeen girl in a used poet.
She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it."
―Lucille Clifton
"I remember nightfall and your room’s open door, the door through which neighbors and angels came in. And the clouds—november evening clouds, drifting in circles over the land. The little trees burdened with jasmine, with doves and droplets of water. That joyous pealing, endless chirping—every evening the same.
And then the next morning, with its tiny dead angels strewn everywhere like paper birds, or the most exquisite of eggshells.
Your dazzling death."
―Marosa DiGiorgio
And then the next morning, with its tiny dead angels strewn everywhere like paper birds, or the most exquisite of eggshells.
Your dazzling death."
―Marosa DiGiorgio
"How many ghosts must I always carry with me? / How much more must I expand to accommodate?"
―Chloë Rose, from “Haunted,” published in Anomaly
―Chloë Rose, from “Haunted,” published in Anomaly
"I’m not going to say anything about bridges. or horses. or sky
ripped apart by birds. there are no fires. in this poem. no lips
trailing smoke. no rearview mirror eyes.
I’m not going to compare her eyelashes to flags waved from departing ships.
or her eyes themselves to rain through dusty winter windowpanes.
her lips to wine stains. her fingers to Japanese paper napkins.
that’s not my image anyway. you won’t find any scarecrows
between these rows of words. no train whistles in the vowel sounds.
no silent movies reflected in her sunglasses I’m not going to say
that her syllables are arpeggios of surrender. or anything like that.
in fact. my poem girl’s breath is nothing like the sweet of night’s earth.
her ribcage isn’t rattled by the angry bird I call her heart."
―This is Not a Poem, Denver Butson
ripped apart by birds. there are no fires. in this poem. no lips
trailing smoke. no rearview mirror eyes.
I’m not going to compare her eyelashes to flags waved from departing ships.
or her eyes themselves to rain through dusty winter windowpanes.
her lips to wine stains. her fingers to Japanese paper napkins.
that’s not my image anyway. you won’t find any scarecrows
between these rows of words. no train whistles in the vowel sounds.
no silent movies reflected in her sunglasses I’m not going to say
that her syllables are arpeggios of surrender. or anything like that.
in fact. my poem girl’s breath is nothing like the sweet of night’s earth.
her ribcage isn’t rattled by the angry bird I call her heart."
―This is Not a Poem, Denver Butson