Mary Oliver, from âThe Gardenerâ in A Thousand Mornings

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Mary Oliver, from âThe Gardenerâ in A Thousand Mornings

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Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry written c. September 1940, from The Diary of Virginia Woolf Vol. V: 1936-1941
. . . I love you. I wish we were real.
Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait in Letters â â Brother Dennis Farrell, 28th March 1963
âMary Oliver, "Have You Ever Tried to Enter The Long Black Branches"
âMargaret Atwood, âNotes Towards a Poem that Can Never Be Writtenâ, from Selected Poems II (1976-1986)

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After twelve days of rain by Dorianne Laux
âLife is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the small, uncaring ways.â
â
Stephen Vincent BenĂŠt (b. 22 July 1898)
On the Fifth Day
by Jane Hirshfield
On the ďŹfth day the scientists who studied the rivers were forbidden to speak or to study the rivers.
The scientists who studied the air were told not to speak of the air, and the ones who worked for the farmers were silenced, and the ones who worked for the bees.
Someone, from deep in the Badlands, began posting facts.
The facts were told not to speak and were taken away. The facts, surprised to be taken, were silent.
Now it was only the rivers that spoke of the rivers, and only the wind that spoke of its bees,
while the unpausing factual buds of the fruit trees continued to move toward their fruit.
The silence spoke loudly of silence, and the rivers kept speaking, of rivers, of boulders and air.
Bound to gravity, earless and tongueless, the untested rivers kept speaking.
Bus drivers, shelf stockers, code writers, machinists, accountants, lab techs, cellists kept speaking.
They spoke, the ďŹfth day, of silence.
Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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Grieve. So that you can be free to feel something else.
Nayyirah Waheed
Have you ever seen anything in your life more wonderful than the way the sun, every evening, relaxed and easy, floats toward the horizon and into the clouds or the hills, or the rumpled sea, and is goneâand how it slides again out of the blackness, every morning, on the other side of the world, like a red flower streaming upward on its heavenly oils, say, on a morning in early summer, at its perfect imperial distanceâand have you ever felt for anything such wild loveâdo you think there is anywhere, in any language, a word billowing enough for the pleasure that fills you, as the sun reaches out, as it warms you as you stand there, empty-handedâor have you too turned from this worldâor have you too gone crazy for power, for things?
Mary Oliver, âThe Sunâ in Devotions
Christopher Citro, from âThe Hay Out There and the Hay in Youâ
Mary Oliver, from âAugust,â in featured in Poetry (August 1993)
Sylvia Plath, Letters of Sylvia Plath Vol. II: 1956-1963

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Anne Sexton, from "The Fury of Sundays" in The Complete Poems
Paul Celan, from âFlower,â from Poetry (December 1971)