Our poems are what the gods couldn’t make without going through us.
Dean Young,The Art of Recklessness: Poetry as Assertive Force and Contradiction (Graywolf Press, 2010)
ughhh i love dean’s writing so fucking much and i have to send him dumb mundane emails for work (UT english department) and he doesn’t know how much i admire him and he probably never will all he will ever know about me is the bureaucracy I put him through what do i dooooo
But words are beings: the game will bewitch you until you become part of it; you will spend your life defending the right of the game to lure you into the maze, to lure you into humour. You read and you do not understand what you read, and so you read more, enjoying the power of words to differ from the mundane. Words are waves. You learn to swim out of the tempting wave which covers you with foam. Words have the rhythm of the sea and the call of the mysterious: ”Come to me, to me in search of what you know not,” the blue calls to you. Luck and the coast guard saved you from certain death with the sound of words. But the lamp of the sea still scratches, but you have not shunned your love to the sea, the source of the primal rhythm. How is the sea imprisoned in three letters, the second of them overflowing with salt? How do letters expand to make room for all these words? How do words expand to embrace the world?
—Mahmoud Darwish, from Absent Presence trans. by Mohammed Shaheen (Hesperus Press, 2010)