“someone can be madly in love with you and still not be ready. they can love you in a way you have never been loved and still not join you on the bridge. and whatever their reasons you must leave. because you never ever have to inspire anyone to meet you on the bridge. you never ever have to convince someone to do the work to be ready. there is more extraordinary love, more love that you have never seen, out here in this wide and wild universe. and there is the love that will be ready.”—nayyirah waheed (via ajarfullofdreams)
“Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.”—Andrew Boyd, Daily Afflictions: The Agony of Being Connected to Everything in the Universe (via larmoyante)
One’s a maestro, small hands deftly dancing across black and white keys: Mozart, Beethoven and Chopin. His slight frame, freckled face and sparkling eyes remind me of a small mischievous bird flitting about.
The eldest is the bright spark, bookish, mathematical, the shadow of fluff on his upper lip. He’s growing into a man; broad-shouldered, nervous laugh, as yet unaware of his handsome potential.
The middle one’s a gentle giant, solid yet soft, hidden musical talents and a calm aura of quiet observation about him. Less angular than his brothers, he exudes warmth.
They are all well-mannered, gentle, quietly confident. We share a lot of interests and my name sounds at home in their mouths.
It is being written in kitchens. It is being written in the limp light of cheap 40-watt bulbs, while beside you, slouched in a chair or marooned on the couch your lover or your mother sleeps. There is the smell of liver and onions in the air. Waves of garlic descend upon the paper as you write. It is being written beside cat boxes or with old black-painted typewriters whose keys continually jam. It is being written while hamsters breed, where cockatoos work their beaks against the cage. It is morning in Alsace, Louisiana. Two poets arrive in an old black car which diesels after the motor is shut off. They step out off towards the lawn and there are greeted by a third, who is very excited, and wants to show them something. It is being written in tiny cabins up near the Arctic Circle where were it not for the ambivalent howling of the wind one could conceivably hear and be frightened by and take for one’s subject the ambivalent howling of the wolves. It is being written by men who no longer love their wives, who hate their fathers-in-law, by women who cheat on their husbands, by thousands of people old and young who feel molested by life, or cheated by the past, or crippled in the present. It is being written by young girls whose feet have ungainly long second toes, by young men with brains instead of muscles, and whose faces are moon scapes of acne, by young men whose parents cannot even read the labels off soup cans. People walk up and down the aisles of groceries and eye the soup cans. Housewives in put-up hair, in beige, shapeless and wrinkled raincoats shift in their choices between this kind of cracker or that bread, their eyes dull and glassy or ferocious with unacknowledged passion. A boy is stooping to line up bottles of fabric softener, self-conscious and hot around the collar. And he is a poet. Women stand pounding the check-out registers, from soup to nuts, free dog bones, mastocelli noodles, and all with migraines. And they are poets. The manager sits in his tiny booth and counts receipts, now and then staring out over the vast panorama which is this voiceless, heartless, mute and lonely humanity, robot-like as they, passing, push their wire carts. Someday, he will write the great poem of their souls.
It is everywhere this poetry. It is the sacred name of every place, it is the nut and bolt, the bleeder valve, the kite string of reality. It is the deep end of the pool, whose water shivers, whose bottom backs off into blue. It is the unsung, the unsaid, it is the uttered and the barely felt, the blue bird, the red. It is the ache at midnight, the slap in the face, the letter, neglected for so long, we were meaning to write to that which within us has waited, aching for so long.
”—Greg Kuzma, from an introductory note in What Poetry Is All About. This isn’t even the introduction. This is from a note preceding the introduction and the subsequent updated introductions, one for each edition of the text, up until an introduction to the fifth edition, which is the one I found in a treasure trove of secondhand books in Philadelphia. It was near closing, clean on the other side of Philly from where I was staying, and I was travelling out of the city the following morning. And I’m so glad I made the effort to get there. Because I found this. (via jslr)