[W]ords evaporate like water in a dish
leaving you with a sense of something meant,
but not the memory of what was said,
or how, or when.
Things stay as they are (call them facts)
even with the names you learn to give them;
poems (you tell yourself) are so many ways
of naming things you’ve seen
once and may not see again,
except for tricks of remembering;
for words forget themselves
and move among the things you cannot name,
and what you know by touch and tact
seems merely a vanishing thing.

Vinay Dharwadker, ‘Words and Things’

(via apoetreflects)

Half thoughts. Stick them all together and you have less than you began with.

Zadie Smith, White Teeth

Back home, the girls are not soft —
they pit peaches with their teeth,
drink sadness like they’re starving.

They always dance alone,
listen to songs with lyrics
about strawberry wine.

They blossom like beer bottles,
wear october on their shins,
split open, screaming —

a foreign rose
just aching
for a fight.

d.a.s, ’The Girls Back Home’

(via lifeinpoetry)

The solid sound laps the shore, somewhat silent.
We are that song: a sibilance, a sigh.

Ben Doyle, ‘Re: Animation’

I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but awful helpless numbness.

Sylvia Plath, 13 October 1959

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
The ashes at thy feet.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese