This is my heimat,
my deep map.
The poem holds its ground on its own margin… The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. Its author stays with it.
Try and write out a scheme or plan and you will only depart from it.
Beneath the blazing of the sun, in that morning of new growth, the countryside rang with song, as its belly swelled with a black and avenging army of men, germinating slowly in its furrows, growing upwards in readiness for harvests to come, until one day soon their ripening would burst open the earth itself.
— Émile Zola, Germinal, 1885 +
—a fragment of Sappho (translated by Anne Carson, included in If Not, Winter)