I've got six months to sort out the hackers, get the Japanese knotweed under control and find an acceptable form of narcissus.
Soundwaves. It’s the difference between one stillness and another stillness.
A poem is an invocation, rebellious return to the blessedness of beginning again, wandering free in pure process of forgetting and finding.
If history is a record of survivors, Poetry shelters other voices.
I often think of the space of a page as a stage, with words, letters, syllable characters moving across.
Herman Melville is not comforting. Emily Dickinson isn’t either. Maybe their work is too hungry for comfort, or just too vivid for comfort. But Henry James is – profoundly so. Because he is tender. The tenderness is there in the structure of the sentence. He knows the way the poor and the dead are forgotten by the living, and he cannot allow that to happen. So he keeps on writing for them, for the dead, as if they were children to be sheltered and loved, never abandoned.
In Maureen Owen's perfectly titled Erosion's Pull, words and lines map, unmap, and revamp our everyday postcontemporary geographies: ironies and ambiguities, surrealistic conundrums, kaleidoscopic comedies, puzzlements, certain and uncertain loves and losses.
In every grave on earth's green sward is a tiny seed of the resurrection life of Jesus Christ, and that seed cannot perish. It will germinate when the warm south wind of Christ's return brings back the spring-tide to this cold sin-cursed earth of ours; and then they that are in their graves, and we who shall lie down in ours, will feel in our mortal bodies the power of His resurrection, and will come forth to life immortal.
Human dignity begins to assert itself only at the point where man is distinguishable from the beast by pity for it.
Prayer has the power to change mountains into highways.
Anything created by human beings is already in the great book of nature.