So I jot down these sentences. I listen to them. I see them making signs to each other, and thanks to them I begin to understand needs, memories, fantasies which are within me. This is the beginning of the poem.
— Yves Bonnefoy
, from “The Art of Poetry No. 69,” Paris Review
(Summer 1994, No. 131)
Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.
A dream, like trying
to remember, breaks open words
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
— Tomas Tranströmer,
from “After a Death”, trans. Robert Bly (via litverve
Who has not sat, afraid, before his heart’s curtain?
— Rainer Maria Rilke
, from “Duino Elegies: The Fourth Elegy”, trans. Stephen Mitchell (via hiddenshores
I will be a little God in my small way.
Franz Gertsch (Swiss, b. 1930), Rüschegg I, 1988-89. Woodcut on Japan paper, plate: 234 x 181 cm., sheet: 276 x 217 cm.
Where would I be if not for your wild heart?
I ask this not from love, but selfishly—
how could I live? How could I make my art?
— Gregory Orr, opening tercet to “Wild Heart,” from The Caged Owl: New & Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2002)
John Baldessari, Cigar Smoke to Match Clouds That are the Same (by Sight-Side View), 1972-73
A jaded traveler with an invisible passport,
I am at home with this heaven of the unforeseen,
waiting for the next whoosh of sudden departure
when, with no advance warning, to tiny augery,
the unpredictable plummets into our lives
from somewhere that looks like sky.