This is my heimat,
my deep map.
The ‘unsayable’ thing at the center of the poem becomes visible to the poet and reader in the same way that dark matter becomes visible to the astrophysicist. You can’t see it, but by measure of its effect on the visible, it can become so precise a silhouette you can almost know it.
Poetry, I’m often told, is something made of words. I think it really goes the other way around: words are made of poetry.
— Robert Bringhurst, “What is Found in Translation” (via invisiblestories)
Scouting a location for a film in Uzbekistan, Antonioni once gave three elderly Muslim men a picture he had taken of each with his Polaroid. The eldest glanced at the photo and immediately returned them, asking: “What is it good for, to stop the time?
Jacob Mikanowski on Geoff Dyer and Tarkovsky in the LA Review of Books.
I recognize the knock.
— Mary Ruefle, on writing poetry +