“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.”
“We are as forlorn as children lost in the wood. When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me and what do I know of yours? And if I were to cast myself down before you and tell you, what more would you know about me that you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful? For that reason alone we human beings ought to stand before one another as reverently, as reflectively, as lovingly, as we would before the entrance to Hell.”—Franz Kafka
“I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it (anywhere
I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)
I fear no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet ) I want no world
(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will
always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)”—E.E. Cummings
Her:Like sand slipping through your fingers. As the little itty bitty rocks quietly fold in through the cracks of your hands. It's soft. It's a hush sound that emits through every bone inside your fingers, inside of your arms, and all the way up to your collar bones. Death feels like sand slipping through your fingers.
“On moonlight nights the long, straight street and dirty white walls, nowhere darkened by the shadow of a tree, their peace untroubled by footsteps or a dog’s bark, glimmered in the pale recession. The silent city was no more than an assemblage of huge, inert cubes, between which only the mute effigies of great men, carapaced in bronze, with their blank stone or metal faces, conjured up a sorry semblance of what the man had been. In lifeless squares and avenues these tawdry idols lorded it under the lowering sky; stolid monsters that might have personified the rule of immobility imposed on us, or, anyhow, its final aspect, that of a defunct city in which plague, stone, and darkness had effectively silenced every voice.”—Albert Camus, The Plague
“They enveloped each other within the folds of their thoughts, holding each other with an intimacy no physical embrace could replicate, allowing their identities to merge once again. Their greatest comfort was a simple one: they were no longer alone. To know that you were with the one who cared for you, and who understood every fiber of your being, and who would not abandon you even in the most desperate of circumstances, that was the most precious relationship a person could have, and they both cherished it. ”—Christopher Paolini, Brisingr
What is it about the night that makes want to run about the streets and have nectar-honey streetlights flash beneath my closed eyelids—I’m running. I pass by a park with a swing tangled around a pole. I have my eyes shut, hoping for my path to be steady, to be excluded from a malleable stop sign—God, I’m still running. Breathing heavily into the air as the dust from the sky begins to whither down onto my face. The night has left. I’m left in my solitude. Running. Breathing. Panicking.
The candy blue stars have kept themselves silent tonight. The sleepy satin sun has been hidden behind clouds of dusty molecules that are found behind a television set.
“I’ve always been an ironic dreamer, unfaithful to my inner promises.
Like a complete outsider, a casual observer of whom I thought I was,
I’ve always enjoyed watching my daydreams go down in defeat.
I was never convinced of what I believed in.
I filled my hands with sand, called it gold, and opened them up to let it slide through.
Words were my only truth.
When the right words were said, all was done; the rest was the sand that had always been.”— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
So, what are your favorite, poets, and some poems to go along with that?
W.H. Auden. His poetry has been influenced in so many of my writing. Something about how he uses such cold words and with a hint of a whimsy feeling makes me get goosebumps.
“The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others; Tears are round, the sea is deep: Roll them overboard and sleep. ” ― W.H. Auden
Phillip Larkin, Vladimir Nabokov, Pablo Neruda
Oh. Pablo Neruda sends me through vast whirlpools of satisfaction. There is no one that can transmit the feeling of love through words as much as his poetry does.
Fernando Pessoa is a favorite as well.
“But my sadness is comforting Because it’s right and natural And because it’s what the soul should feel When it already thinks it exists And the hand pick flowers And the soul takes no notice.” ― Fernando Pessoa
Welp, that’s the outline of my favorite poets, and a few of my favorite poems as well.
my words are stitched together with false hopes and wilting promises. this is all my fault; stories aren’t born overnight. you cannot force yourself to write a story. you cannot count pages; you must learn to count the hairs that rose from your skin and the lines of poetry that they carved in your bones. you cannot sit in front of a blank page and let the white blankness consume you. let the darkness consume you. sure. let the shadows rest their hands on your hips. let them suck your breath and slip stars in the pockets of your clavicles but dear god, don’t let the white blankness take you in. she’s as dangerous as summertime.