poetgirl

In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

poetgirl

journalofanobody:

Biber - Partita for Two Violins and Basso Continuo in D Minor - Mov. 1-3/5

Stations of the Cross

We sat on the church pew that Saturday

Night, praying the stations of the cross.

Fourteen places of pain, pain

Prayed and prayed and prayed.

Our voices antiphonal as we listened

Then spoke, then listened, then

Spoke, praying in sound and silence,

While He prayed in and for us, the pain

Prayed and praying.

On Sunday night the pain was in your eyes,

Your face a station of the cross. And I

Helpless before the pain, dumbly facing

The pain I caused. Black diagonals slanted

Off your cheekbones, furrowing tears.

The love I thought so pure caused

This pain. And you

Became—Christ to me.

The empty woods are a tomb

For burial: bare

Oaks and fog-misted

Hemlocks.  kinglets here and there

Embroider the silence

With scarlet-silk sounds.

We enter our Monday

Sabbath. The silence strips us

Piece by piece of guilt

And pride and shame. By noon

We’re empty and bare

As the woods, washed

For burial. How long ’til

Dogwoods clothe our nakedness,

Warblers sing our resurrection?

Excerpt From: Eugene H. Peterson. “Holy Luck.” RosettaBooks, 2012. iBooks. 

 

"When you work in form, be it a sonnet or villanelle or whatever, the form is there and you have to fill it."



"Life, with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a sonnet: You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself."



- A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L’Engle



"Above all do not lose your desire to walk. Everyday I walk myself into a state of well being and walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. Thus if one keeps on walking everything will be all right."



- Søren Kierkegaard 

(Source: stxxz.us)



"Long ago,” he said, “long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more."



- F. Scott Fitzgerald, Winter Dreams



"Quantum theory provides us with a striking illustration of the fact that we can fully understand a connection though we can only speak of it in images and parables."



- Werner Heisenberg, Physics and Beyond: Encounters and Conversation 



parabola-magazine:

From our summer issue:
"I came here to renew—something, although I didn’t yet know what. And to escape, well, everything. Two years ago, at the end of my MFA program, I was broken down and burned out, spent twigs for a spent fire. I did everything quickly, heart in my mouth, because I felt sure that if I took any extra time I would collapse into ash. I was teaching three times the prescribed student limit, tutoring, writing, finishing my thesis and my classes, and editing my first novel for next year’s publication—all jobs that filled me with whiplash joy and panic and soul-crushing insecurity. A person I loved had shown me such grinding ambivalence that I’d had to let him go, and I spent far too much time imagining our never-to-be future together. There was a cushion-laden corner of the floor in my cheap apartment that was alternately a nook for grading papers and a nest to curl up in and cry until I fell asleep. I ate whatever I thought would make me feel better, mostly cheese and Vernor’s ginger ale. My heart was broken and my belly ached."
–Betsy Cornwell, “The Search for One Thing,” a journey to Ireland brings a young woman home, Summer 2014, “Embodiment.” Read the entire essay here › 

Thank you Betsy Cornwell. 

parabola-magazine:

From our summer issue:

"I came here to renew—something, although I didn’t yet know what. And to escape, well, everything. Two years ago, at the end of my MFA program, I was broken down and burned out, spent twigs for a spent fire. I did everything quickly, heart in my mouth, because I felt sure that if I took any extra time I would collapse into ash. I was teaching three times the prescribed student limit, tutoring, writing, finishing my thesis and my classes, and editing my first novel for next year’s publication—all jobs that filled me with whiplash joy and panic and soul-crushing insecurity. A person I loved had shown me such grinding ambivalence that I’d had to let him go, and I spent far too much time imagining our never-to-be future together. There was a cushion-laden corner of the floor in my cheap apartment that was alternately a nook for grading papers and a nest to curl up in and cry until I fell asleep. I ate whatever I thought would make me feel better, mostly cheese and Vernor’s ginger ale. My heart was broken and my belly ached."

Betsy Cornwell, “The Search for One Thing,” a journey to Ireland brings a young woman home, Summer 2014, “Embodiment.” Read the entire essay here › 

Thank you Betsy Cornwell.