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Anaīs Nin

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Mikhail Lermontov, ‘Demon’ (trans. Charles Johnston)

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The dancer’s body is simply the luminous manifestation of the soul. The true dance is an expression of serenity; it is controlled by the profound rhythm of inner emotion. Emotion does not reach the moment of frenzy out of a spurt of action; it broods first, it sleeps like the life in the seed, and it unfolds with a gentle slowness. The Greeks understood the continuing beauty of a movement that mounted, that spread, that ended with a promise of rebirth.

- Isadora Duncan

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Wisława Szymborska, from “Water“, View With a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems

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Krotkaya (Aleksandr Borisov, 1960)

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Vinegar and Oil by Jane Hirshfield

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Hari Alluri, from “Ancestral Memory”, After Kwame Dawes 

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Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths: Selected Stories & Other Writings

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“My heart is full of February longings,”

— Bing Hua, from Roses by the Stream; Poems; “February Roses,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Pablo Neruda - Love Sonnet XI

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A Blade of Grass

by Brian Patten

You ask for a poem. I offer you a blade of grass. You say it is not good enough. You ask for a poem.

I say this blade of grass will do. It has dressed itself in frost, It is more immediate Than any image of my making.

You say it is not a poem, It is a blade of grass and grass Is not quite good enough. I offer you a blade of grass.

You are indignant. You say it is too easy to offer grass. It is absurd. Anyone can offer a blade of grass.

You ask for a poem. And so I write you a tragedy about How a blade of grass Becomes more and more difficult to offer,

And about how as you grow older A blade of grass Becomes more difficult to accept.

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— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; ‘Dream Reveals in Neon the Great Addictions’", published c. 2017.

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and when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed but when we are silent we are still afraid

So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive

— Audre Lorde, from “A Litany for Survival,” The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde

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but who heals the healer?

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find myself listening to music i loved years ago and i realize i still am her

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Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems; from 'Three Women'

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Kim Addonizio, Lucifer at the Starlite; "For You"