Poetry
...
... a place for the genuine,
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise

Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.

Poems are both the doing and undoing. Electric prayers and sonnets. Hope deeper than blood and bone. Wounds you can place your hand on.

She's brim full of poetry - actualized poetry, if I may use the expression. She lives what paper-poets only write...

In the resonance we hear the poem, in the reverberations we speak it, it is our own.

The words were on their way, and when they arrived, she would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.

Poems reach me, and hold me, and give me pleasure.

It was her work of art, her poem and her prayer, to repeat this story, low and precipitately, as if she were in the confessional. You felt that she came to it quite naturally, without transition, so completely did it posses her whenever they were alone.

My collection of stories is called A River Runs Through It, and they are love stories: stories of my love of craft — of what men and women can do with their hands — and of my love of seeing life turn into literature.

She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' sir.

I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.

Her soul belongs ​to words and​ books. Every time she ​reads she ​is home

The hands reaching in
among the leaves and spines
were once my mother's.
I've passed them on.
Decades ahead, you'll study your own
temporary hands, and you'll remember.
Don't cry, this is what happens.

I can read it.
I can read her.
Cuz she’s thinking about how her own parents also came here with hope like my ma. She’s wondering if the hope at the end of our hope is just as false as the one that was at the end of my ma’s. And she;s taking the words of my ma and putting them into the mouths of her own ma and pa and hearing them say that they love her and they miss her and they wish her the world. And she’s taking the song of my pa and she’s weaving it into everything else till it becomes a sad thing all her own.
And it hurts her, but it’s an okay hurt, but it hurts still, but it’s good, but it hurts.
She hurts.
I know all this.
I know it’s true.
Cuz I can read her.
I can read her Noise even tho she ain’t got none.
I know who she is.
I know Viola Eade.