I weep over the body of a sleeping child for I feel I will betray him before a new day dawns.
Let my confession Be written for the first time With its true name Confession And not an attempt at poetry Since that’s how it must be I must hurt even more
Once I could protect myself Now I call it solitude
Related to this, I’ll add to my memories that I once had a dog. I thought there could be nothing better than to be a dog. The way you hit them and they submit.
It’s been a long time since then.
As for what I’ve left Today For you to understand It wasn’t from love It was because One can drown in the forest And I only wanted To find a way out
(Pause for deep breath)
This poem Is my last revolutionary act Before I obey The advice of foreigners.
"Art has a role not to redeem history, but to reanimate and reimagine the lost moments, the feelings never expressed, the secrets never surfaced. I think that it’s possible for art to reckon with and mourn this loss even as it imagines or recovers what has been lost. I think it’s possible to simultaneously arrive at both."
"I remember the moment I learned words could record the reciprocal press of poet upon the world and the world upon poet. A truant undergraduate student, I had signed up late for a “Modern British Poetry” course, and came to the second class unprepared. The assigned reading was Gerard Manley Hopkins."
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