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memoryslandscape · an hour ago
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Greg Sellers, Love Lies Bleeding, 2019
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memoryslandscape · 12 hours ago
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I take you as I take the moon rising, Darkness, black moth the light burns up in.
Charles Wright, “Death,” from China Trace (Wesleyan University Press, 1977)
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memoryslandscape · 13 hours ago
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We live the strangeness of being momentary, and still we are exalted by being temporary. [. . .] It is the fact of being brief, being small and slight that is the source of our beauty. We are a singularity that makes music out of noise because we must hurry. We make a harvest of loneliness and desiring in the blank wasteland of cosmos.
Jack Gilbert, from “The Manger of Incidentals,” Refusing Heaven: Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 2005)
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memoryslandscape · 13 hours ago
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caballosblancos, Druidic, 2010
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memoryslandscape · 2 days ago
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The language of touch is a language in itself. Touch is also subtle and distinctive and holds within itself great refinement of memory.
John O’Donohue, from “The Language of Touch,” Anam Ċara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom (HarperCollins, 1997)
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memoryslandscape · 2 days ago
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A way a lone a last a loved a long the
James Joyce, closing line to Finnigan’s Wake (Viking Press, 1939)
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memoryslandscape · 4 days ago
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The book mentions none of this— not a word about how the soil looks braided here, in the far north, as if the world is held together by this embroidery of roots and I’ve read that entire counties are really one organism— a mushroom, I think—a fungus reaching into everything. One time I bought this box of dried blood meal home to feed my garden. According to the label this “natural product” is 12% nitrogen, which is the “most important element for proper plant growth and greenness.” I guess we always knew it was the death of animals that made the earth so green. A meal of blood—the language exact for once, yet when I sniffed the box with its stale, flat smell of old blood, I could also smell the scent of children’s breath and I recalled the taste of lovers’ long last kisses in the dark before the night is done. Breath and blood nitrogen and green [her] and me kissing in the grass beside the car, the afternoon of the solar eclipse when these slivers of sunlight, like crescent moons, were scattered in the shadows as if the world were wearing the robes of sorcerers and that night when I was in and out of her and the heavens were out of reach as they usually are and now I remember this my mouth dry with the memory— dry with that stale, flat taste and I stand up with it all and walk around my study thinking about [her] this wild embrace of one thing with another, me finally at the edge of the pond—hot, bloody with fly bites, I’m seeing the simple flower at last— the Floating Heart feasting on its dense entanglements.
R.M. Ryan, from “Floating Hearts,” Smartish Pace (issue 13)
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memoryslandscape · 5 days ago
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So, what are you asking, Shrooms?
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memoryslandscape · 5 days ago
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it is just the past which is the present it is like a dream a memory [. . .] it is all things that have happened and so they will happen again and even after they have already happened again you still say do you remember
Frank Stanford, lines 9130-9133 from “The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You,” The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You (Lost Roads, 2000)
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memoryslandscape · 5 days ago
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Pharis & Jason Romero, “The Little Things Are Hardest in the End,” Long Gone Out West Blues LP (2013)
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memoryslandscape · 5 days ago
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The summer mornings begin inch by inch while we sleep, and walk with us later as long-legged beauty
Jack Gilbert, from “Horses at Midnight Without a Moon,” Refusing Heaven (Alfred A, Knopf, 2005)
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memoryslandscape · 5 days ago
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I told the melancholy to guide me I startled the beautiful things which had disappeared
Frank Stanford, lines 12255-12256 from “The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You,” The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You (Lost Roads, 2000)
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memoryslandscape · 5 days ago
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As I’ve found with other memoir poems, the writing process, and in particular the poetic writing process, forces you to imagine the experience in a visceral way. The images, sounds, smells, feelings---all the raw material needed to create poetry---has to be mined from memory. It’s magical how pulling threads of memory unlocks more memories, especially as you revise and edit the poem. Poems are rarely, if ever, written in one sitting. Poems are written, re-written, and edited over days, weeks and sometimes months or even years. That’s important because sleep cycles unlock memories. I’ll go to sleep with a poetic problem to solve and more often than not wake up with a new idea or approach or detail. Sometimes capturing a present experience can unlock memories from decades before.
James Moorehead, from podcast “Unlocking Memories by Writing Poetry,” viewlesswings.com (26 April 2022)
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memoryslandscape · 6 days ago
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Soreal, The Discreet, 2008
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memoryslandscape · 6 days ago
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Do you believe at times that a moment chooses you to remember it entirely & tell about it — so that it may live again?
Laure-Anne Bosselaar, from “Lately,” Vox Populi (11 June 2022)
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memoryslandscape · 6 days ago
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(HarperCollins, 1997}
Listen to me. English words are like prisms. Empty, nothing inside, and still they make rainbows.
– Denis Johnson, Already Dead: A California Gothic
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memoryslandscape · 6 days ago
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I see it; the strand of hair lifting from her face … how it fell onto the page–& lived with no sound. Like a word. I still hear it.
Ocean Vuong, closing lines to “The Gift,” Night Sky with Exit Wounds (Copper Canyon Press, 2016)  
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