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“If my critics saw me walking over the Thames they would say it was because I couldn’t swim.”
— Margaret Thatcher
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“Whether it’s the days you burn more brilliant than the sun, or the nights you collapse into my lap, your body broken into a thousand questions, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
— Mouthful of Forevers by Clementine von Radics
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Terrified again
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you.
Samuel Beckett, Cascando.
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“Music Master”
You that love lovers,
this is your home. Welcome!
In the midst of making form, love
made this form that melts form,
with love for the door,
soul the vestibule.
Watch the dust grains moving
in the light near the window.
Their dance is our dance.
We rarely hear the inward music,
but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless,
directed by the one who teaches us,
the pure joy of the sun,
our music master.
When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.
Praise God for these two insomnias!
And the difference between them.
The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain, both. We are
the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
I want to hold you close like a lute,
so we can cry out with loving.
You would rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror, and here are the stones
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— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; ‘The Third Hour of the Night’", published c. 2017
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Pedro Salinas, tr. by Ruth Katz Crispin, from Memory in My Hands: The Love Poetry of Pedro Salinas; “The voice I owe to you”
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I wanted to be something
else. Myself, but better. Wild,
and not-yet, a burn, maybe
as it is occurring.
— Cynthia Cruz, from “Fragment,” Hotel Oblivion
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https://www.instagram.com/p/CbXBZ0qNi0K/?utm_medium=copy_link
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Clarice Lispector, tr. by Stefan Tobler, from Água Viva
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“Grief is just love with no place to go.”
-William Spence
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Toni Morrison, in “The Art of Fiction No. 134,” featured in The Paris Review (Issue 128 Fall 1993) interview by Elissa Schappell & Claudia Brodsky Lacour
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“Forgive me if I wander a little this evening, for I have been all day employ’d in a very abstract Poem and I am in deep love with you – two things which must excuse me.”
— John Keats in his letter to Fanny Brawne dated 27 July 1819
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