i bleed words,
ink drops, and
poetry merges —
blackish-crimson
autobiography
poetry: about
So easy, so hard
My poems are love-drunk letters to the universe.
Questions of the Sky
—Anonymous, The Queries Magazine, 1890
Unveiled
Much poetry happens in the silence
They healed my heart
“I have a request to make of those who read Empty Shells. If any friend surmises he has discovered the author he will be courteous enough to keep my secret. I have left out a great many poems that would have betrayed my identity, and put in none that I have cause to fear. Why then publish? I have no right to count on a long life and I am not willing to be ‘edited, revised, and corrected.’ On the other hand, I feel towards my poems as many women do towards their weak children; and treasure them because if they were conceived in grief they healed my heart. After the first smart of a new loss was softened, next to writing my greatest comfort was reading; and I did not then seek great authors. Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe were naught to me: I sought minor Poets — of whom I dare hope to be one. Could I but be a like comfort to some simple, sorrowing hearts I should feel my life-griefs had not been in vain.”
Poetry
There is a pleasure in the pathless words…
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet can not all conceal.
The words are lovely, dark and deep.
I went to the words because I wished to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of language.
In the words we return to reason and faith.
Come to the words, for here is rest.
Literature does not grow wild in the words.
I put my heart to school in the words.
In the words is perpetual youth.
Whose words these are I think I know.
We are not out of the words yet.
Chatterbox
Prose is poetry that can’t stop talking.
Uplifting
when winter gets deep
into languishing hearts
poetry promises spring
Imprinting
Poetry is an inky soulprint.