Poems, even when narrative, do not resemble stories. All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory or defeat. Everything moves towards the end, when the outcome will be known.
Poems, regardless of any outcome, cross the battlefields, tending the wounded, listening to the wild monologues of the triumphant or the fearful. They bring a kind of peace. Not by anaesthesia or easy reassurance, but by recognition and the promise that what has been experienced cannot disappear as if it had never been. Yet the promise is not of a monument. (Who, still on a battlefield, wants monuments?) The promise is that language has acknowledged, has given shelter, to the experience which demanded, which cried out.
"(via metaphorformetaphor)
“I had two desires: desire
to be safe and desire to feel.”Poems 1962-2012: Vita Nova, ‘Aubade’ by Louise Glück
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Have you ever really thought about how when you look at the moon, it’s the same moon Shakespeare and Marie Antoinette and Van Gogh and Cleopatra looked at.
(Source: rehlaxe, via leafgirlsblog)
my car forward, and I procceed on the idea of promised
land alone. "