On Neruda…

My heart races when Neruda talks of how he sees his lover, how his passion evolves because of her. My heart aches when Neruda shows the profound depths of his depression, how his dark internal world could be. He writes of the world he is experiencing with passion and he does not cloud the essence of his experiences with easy phrases or lofty metaphors. The result is breathtaking. He once stated that he always returns to his work, “to the blank page which every day awaits us poets so that we shall fill it

On My Love of Rilke…

Rilke can utterly undo me. He has the ability to help me clear my mind — trust me this is no easy task. I don’t know if it is the sensual imagery, the stark mysticism, the rigorous language, or all three. I suspect it is all three… The Book of Hours, I, 17 She who reconciles the ill-matched threads of her life, and weaves them gratefully into a single cloth— it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall and clears it for a different celebration where the one guest

the phone rings

and you ask the person on the other end to repeat what they just said because it doesn’t make sense and suddenly you are aware of every detail around you and you realize that time has slowed down to let words sink in and you hear yourself asking questions that have answers you don’t want to hear –but that wasn’t the point of the questions, because the point of the questions was to demonstrate to the person on the other end of the phone that they had bad