“I buried my father in my heart. Now he grows in me, my strange son, my little root who won’t drink milk, little pale foot sunk in unheard-of night, little clock spring newly wet in the fire, little grape, parent… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
Memory revises me. Even now a letter comes from a place I don’t know, from someone with my name and postmarked years ago, while… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
Our bodies look solid, but they arent. Were like a fountain. A fountain of water looks solid, but you can put your fingers right… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
I've been thinking about something for a long time, and I keep noticing that most human speech-if not all human speech-is made with the… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
“From blossoms comes this brown paper bag of peaches we bought from the boy at the bend in the road where we turned toward… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
“But, no one can tell without cease our human story, and so we lose, lose” — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
“The moon from any window is one part whoever’s looking. The part I can’t see is everything my sister keeps to herself. One part… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
Poetry is the language of extremity. Poetry is a transfer of potency. You feel something potent and then you transfer it onto the page. — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
