There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.
And I'll dance with you in Vienna, I'll be wearing a river's disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.
... i didn't fall in love of course it's never up to you but she was walking back and forth and i was passing through
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
It was a dance of masks and every mask was perfect because every mask was a real face and every face was a real mask so there was no mask and there was no face for there was but one dance in which there was but one mask but one true face which was the same and which was a thing without a name which changed and changed into itself over and over.
Though I don't believe, I come to you now, and I lift my doubt to your mercy.
I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat; you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is and all he was a thousand kisses deep.
first of all nothing will happen and a little later nothing will happen again
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of Dance me to the end of love
Deprivation is the mother of poetry.
At first first nothing will happen to us and later on it will happen to us again.
so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos... So ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in.
Who could have foretold the heart grows old from touching others
I heard of a man who says words so beautifully that if he only speaks their name women give themselves to him. If I am dumb beside your body while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips it is because I hear a man climb stairs and clear his throat outside our door.
Your faith was strong, but you needed proof...
Be With Me In The Phases Of My Work Because My Brain Feels Like It Has Been Whipped And I Yearn To Make A Small Perfect Thing Which Will Live In Your Morning Like Curious Static Through A President's Elegy Or A Nude Hunchback Acquiring A Tan On The Crowded Oily Beach.
To a Young Nun This undemanding love that our staggered births have purchased for us — You in your generation, I in mine. I am not the one you are looking for. You are not the one I've stopped looking for. How sweetly time disposes of us as we go arm in arm over the Bridge of Details: Your turn to chop. My turn to cook. Your turn to die for love. My turn to resurrect.
I've forgotten most of what I've read and, frankly, it never seemed very important to me or to the world.
DEAR DIARY You are greater than the Bible And the Conference of the Birds And the Upanishads All put together You are more severe Than the Scriptures And Hammurabi’s Code More dangerous than Luther’s paper Nailed to the Cathedral door You are sweeter Than the Song of Songs Mightier by far Than the Epic of Gilgamesh And braver Than the Sagas of Iceland I bow my head in gratitude To the ones who give their lives To keep the secret The daily secret Under lock and key Dear Diary I mean no disrespect But you are more sublime Than any Sacred Text Sometimes just a list Of my events Is holier than the Bill of Rights And more intense
In dreams the truth is learned that all good works are done in the absence of a caress.
