marie howe, in an interview with krista tippett of on being

Mary Oliver, from "Of Love", Red Bird

"Poems are not written...", Andrey Voznesensky (translated by metamorphesque)

Czesław Miłosz, “Ars Poetica?”

― Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons (translated by George Reavy)

Kate Baer, from And Yet: Poems; “Idea”

[Text ID: “I will enjoy this life. I will open it like a peach in season, suck the juice from every finger, run my tongue over my chin. I will not worry about clichés or uninvited guests peering in my windows. I will love and be loved. Save and be saved a thousand times. I will let the want into my body, bless the heat under my skin. My life, I will not waste it. I will enjoy this life.”]

"Two Phantoms", Vahan Teryan (translated by metamorphesque)

Lora Mathis

I entered the forest, drawn in by the trees almost in spite of myself, it was irresistible. They were emitting such a powerful energy that I felt humbled, happy to receive their generosity. It was immediate, the pleasure I felt from stroking the grey bark; I saw a brown liquid oozing out of the tree, and the smell of balsam stopped me in my tracks. I stayed among the trees for almost an hour, alone, I had lost all notion of time.

—Dominique Roques, In Search of Perfumes

by  pali_nalu

Dulce María Loynaz, tr. by James O’Connor, from Absolute Solitude: Selected Poems

[Text ID: “Your hands have a strange clarity. Have you been walking among the stars?”]