âI cannot write about Damascus, without the jasmine climbing on my fingers. I cannot say Her name, without my mouth getting overcrowded with apricot drink, blackberries and quince.â
â Nizar Qabbani
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@ughpoems
âI cannot write about Damascus, without the jasmine climbing on my fingers. I cannot say Her name, without my mouth getting overcrowded with apricot drink, blackberries and quince.â
â Nizar Qabbani

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âShe floated in an unreal innocenceâŚ.â
â Patrick Chamoiseau, tr. Rose-Myriam RĂŠjouis and Val Vinokurov, Texaco (via niimph)
âYouâyou strangeâyou almost unearthly thing!âI love you as my own flesh.â
â Jane Eyre, Charlotte BrontĂŤ (via soracities)
âYou and I know each other in our bones,â
â Kurt Vonnegut, from a letter to Nanny Vonnegut wr. c. January 1973
âWhat settles is powdered like the morning after an eveningâs unexpected snow when one looks out to find a nothingness thatâs there: the street, the car, the yard having vanished beneath a pale quiet, falling. And across, where the park once was, lone footprints appear even lonelier as they trek away, searching for some lost yesteryear, a dear friend missed.â
â Greg Sellers, from working title âA Pale Quiet, Falling,â poem-in-progress, 6 February 2021

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ânow bounded, now immeasurable, it is alternately stone in you and star.
Rainer Maria Rilke, excerpt of âEvening [Der Abend]â, from The Book of Pictures, trans. by Stephen Mitchell in The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke
Sourceâ(âŚ) bald begrenzt und bald begreifend, abwechselnd Stein in dir wird und Gestirn.
(via antigonick)
Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to his wife VĂŠra (1924), Letters to VĂŠra (ed. Brian Boyd & trans. Olga Voronin)
[Text ID: âI know that I am a very boring and unpleasant man, drowned in literatureâŚBut I love you.â]
âHis heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide.â
â James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
âBecause we both loved the color of October, soaked in wine,â
â Elizabeth Cohen, from Circeâs Lament; âI Put A Spell on You Version 2.0,â
âStill, love is the impulse from which poetry springs. Even dark poems. Especially dark poems. To know the worst and write in spite of that, that must be love.â
â Lisel Mueller, from The Poetâs Notebook: Excerpts from the Notebooks of 26 American Poets, eds. Stephen Kuusisto, Deborah Tall, & David Weiss (W. W. Norton & Co., 1995)Â (via memoryslandscape)

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âAnd because I am so full of longing for you at the moment I am going to end this letter because of the pain I have at knowing that [being together] simply cannot be. I send you my love, a dozen sweet kisses, hug you tenderly in my heartâ
â Marie Bader (1886-1942), in a letter to Ernst LĂśwy (1880-1943) KarlĂn, 14/6/1941 in: âLife and Love in Nazi Prague. Letters from an Occupied City. Marie Baderâ, translated by Kate Ottevange
âToday I wanted to paint nakedness ââ
â Georgia OâKeeffe (1887-1886, in a letter to Alfred Stieglitz (1864-1946), [Canyon, Texas] ⢠[July 1, 1917] in: âMy Faraway One. Selected Letters of Georgia OâKeeffe and Alfred Stieglitz. Volume 1, 1915â1933âł
âOh how I would love to see you and speak to you now. I feel as if I should be with you at this moment. To know that I canât be yours depresses me terribly and I am very upset by it.â
â Marie Bader (1886-1942), in a letter to Ernst LĂśwy (1880-1943) KarlĂn, 17/6/1941 in: âLife and Love in Nazi Prague. Letters from an Occupied City. Marie Baderâ, translated by Kate Ottevange
âAnd I wish you were not so far awayâand would take me out into the nightâway out there in the dark bluenessâand that the day would never comeâor would I like to see the dawn with youâNight seems to mean that I could be close to youâfeel your nearnessâ That if the day came and we were out thereâeven in the emptinessâand alone â we would be farther apartâwould have to be. Goodnight.â
â Georgia OâKeeffe (1887-1886, in a letter to Alfred Stieglitz (1864-1946), [Canyon, Texas] ⢠[July 1, 1917] in: âMy Faraway One. Selected Letters of Georgia OâKeeffe and Alfred Stieglitz. Volume 1, 1915â1933âł
âI like people who dream or talk to themselves interminably; I like them, for they are double. They are here and elsewhere.â
â Albert Camus

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âShe is passion embodied, a flower of melodrama in eternal bloom.â
â Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot
â(What was âIt interested meâ supposed to mean? A book either knocks you down or raises you up. Otherwise, why pay money for it?)â
â Mihail Sebastian, For Two Thousand Years (trans. Philip Ă Ceallaigh)