I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up all alone, it’s not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people that make you feel alone.”

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names, and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others fall: again and again the two of us walk out together under the ancient trees, lie down again and again among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

The alternatives of summer do not remove
us from this place. The fainting into skies
from a diving board, the express train to
Detroit’s damp bars, the excess of affection
on the couch near an open window or a Bauhaus
fire escape, the lazy regions of stars, all
are strangers. Like Mayakovsky read on steps
of cool marble, or Yeats danced in a theatre
of polite music. The classroon day of dozing
and grammar, the partial eclipse of the head
in the row in front of the head of poplars,
sweet Syrinx! last out the summer in a stay
of iron. Workmen loiter before urinals, stare
out windows at girders tightly strapped to clouds.
And in the morning we whimper as we cook
an egg, so far from fluttering sands and azure!

What in your life is calling you
when all the noise is silenced
the meetings adjourned
the lists laid aside
and the wild Iris blooms
by itself
in the dark forest,

what still pulls on your soul?

What in your life is calling you

when all the noise is silenced

the meetings adjourned

the lists laid aside

and the wild Iris blooms

by itself

in the dark forest,

what still pulls on your soul?

All life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference between those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other.

All life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference between those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping

     slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket

     sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I dreamed all this as in my childhood I

Lay patiently covered up, waiting for morning.

Lovers there were, and captains, crowding my room.

Sages, and poets, telling me almost nothing

But brave, be brave, we tell as to a child

What can be told only in his awakening.

Loudly my lordly moralisers spoke.

Calling me from my sleep, yet still in my dreaming

Feelings are more dangerous than ideas, because they aren’t susceptible to rational evaluation. They grow quietly, spreading underground, and erupt suddenly, all over the place.

Feelings are more dangerous than ideas, because they aren’t susceptible to rational evaluation. They grow quietly, spreading underground, and erupt suddenly, all over the place.

She dreams of August in the singing morning..
When all the little things come out to play, 
When every spider’s web is sticky, lacy, 
And every kid will have the pinkest day.
She fell in love in August as a girl…
His smile was melting smooth like green ice cream, 
She wanted him in August and she got him, 
He was her love, her every glowing dream.
August takes you back to yellow meadows, 
To days when Grandmas made you lemonade, 
To nights when how you begged to stay out later, 
And afternoons with novels in the shade.
To kittens that you loved
and have forgotten…
To mom and dad who loved you for all time..
To him who waited somewhere in the hot night..
To kisses made of moonbeams..green as lime..
August, sultry August, month of magic….
Dragonflies become you…you are rare, 
Fireflys annoint you with their glowing…
August burning month…your love I wear.