“I warned you clearly
An omnivorous poet,
I eat everything.”

Elvira Riveiro Tobío, from “Carnia Haikai,” trans. Adrian West

(via proustitute)

“Last year I abstained
this year I devour

without guilt
which is also an art”
— Margaret Atwood, Last Year I Abstained

“It’s June.
I’m tired of being brave.”

Anne Sexton, The Truth the Dead Know 

(via )

“you said Is
there anything which
is dead or alive more beautiful
than my body,to have in your fingers”

e e cummings, from “you said is” 

(via swankfuckerfables-of-the-reconstruction)

I almost went to bed
without remembering
the four white violets
I put in the button-hole
of your green sweater

and how i kissed you then
and you kissed me
shy as though I’d
never been your lover

— Leonard Cohen, Song (I almost went to bed…) from The Spice-Box of Earth

Does the body lie
moving like this, are these
touches, hairs, wet
soft marble my tongue runs over
lies you are telling me?

Your body is not a word,
it does not lie or
speak truth either.

It is only
here or not here.

— Margaret Atwood, We Are Hard On Each Other (from Power Politics)


Poem by Ewa by Ewa Partum, 1972


Poem by Ewa by Ewa Partum, 1972

Secrecy flows through you,
a different kind of blood.
It’s as if you’ve eaten it
like a bad candy,
taken it into your mouth,
let it melt sweetly on your tongue,
then allowed it to slide down your throat
like the reverse of uttering,
a word dissolved
into its glottals and sibilants,
a slow intake of breath —

And now it’s in you, secrecy.
Ancient and vicious, luscious
as dark velvet.
It blooms in you,
a poppy made of ink.

— Margaret Atwood, Secrecy

“The ‘unsayable’ thing at the center of the poem becomes visible to the poet and reader in the same way that dark matter becomes visible to the astrophysicist. You can’t see it, but by measure of its effect on the visible, it can become so precise a silhouette you can almost know it.” — 

Rebecca Lindenberg, interviewed for McSweeney’s Books

(via mythologyofblue, nps2013)

“We sleep in language, if language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.” — 

Robert Kelly, Poetry, 2013

(via heteroglossiaounu)

“Then it is true,
true that people no longer await a Savior,
that lovesick girls gouge their own naive eyes
with their knitting needles?”

Forugh Farrokhzad, “A Visitation at Night.”

(via batarde)

“as long as you want” — 

Sappho, fragment 45 translated by Anne Carson in If Not, Winter

(via proustitute)

“Beautiful, sobbing
high-geared fucking
and then to lie silently
like deer tracks in the
freshly-fallen snow beside
the one you love.
That’s all.”

Richard Brautigan, Deer Tracks

(via of-saudade, theboywiththesagantattoo)

“You’ve no idea
            what’s grown
inside me
            since I bled.”

Elisa Griswold, from “Sample

(via proustitute)

“she kills me
I divine her”
— Georges Bataille, 24 Fragments from Divine Filth: Lost Writings by Georges Bataille (trans. Mark Spitzer)