Autobiographia Literaria

September 20, 2018

When I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard
all alone.
I hated dolls and I
hated games, animals were
not friendly and birds
flew away.
If anyone was looking
for me I hid behind a
tree and cried out “I am
an orphan.”
And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
writing these poems!
Imagine!

Frank O’Hara

what the storyteller does

September 20, 2018

path and mist

I believe strongly that what we do as poets is but a variant of what the musician does, what the historian does, what the storyteller does, what the painter and what the sculptor does and what film makers do. My work as a poet relies on interdependence. I write in solitude but my work is not solitary. I am partner at one time with painters in whose work I see poems, in other times with composers’ work in which I hear the lines of poems, even in critical pieces containing the language of poetry.

Darrel Bourque
Call and Response: Conversations in Verse

beyond speech

September 20, 2018

Luca Merli

The language of poetry specializes in doubt. Without the doubters, everyone is cut off at the first question. Poetry does not presume to know, but is angling to get a glimpse of what is gradually coming into view; it aims to rightly identify what is looming; it intends to interrogate whatever is already in place. Poetry, whose definition remains evasive by necessity, advocates the lost road; and beyond speech — waiting, listening, and silence.

C.D. Wright
The Poet, the Lion, Talking Pictures, El Farolito, a Wedding in St. Roch, the Big Box Store, the Warp in the Mirror, Spring, Midnights, Fire & All

(How’s that for a title, boys and girls?)

love like a fire

September 20, 2018

He uses me – uses all of me so I am lit and glowing with love like a fire, and this is all I looked for all my life – to be able to give of my love, my spontaneous joy, unreservedly, with no holding back for fear of his misuse, betrayal.

Sylvia Plath
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath: entry dated 6th April 1958

she disappeared

September 20, 2018

After an afternoon together, she disappeared with a tree’s shadow shushing the sun, the summer breeze seeming to remember autumn. Still her movement against his body could not be swept away.

Greg Sellers,
journal entry,
Notes from Neruda’s Ghost