The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures. — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut. — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you… — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
“No home anymore. Nowhere to return. My house is a ruin, a cemetery. You may yearn for the grave, but just try living there.” — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
“Lack of Faith" Yes, even when I don’t believe— there is a place in me inaccessible to unbelief, a patch of wild grace, a… — Anna Kamieńska Copy Share Image
My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the… — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being. — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way… — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played. — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that. — Anna Kamienska Copy Share Image
