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 I await injunctions from the light or the dark; I wait for shapeliness limned, or dissolution. Is paradise due or narrowly missed until another thousand years? I wait in a blue hour and faraway noise of… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share
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 outgoing breath. This is the strange thing about presence and absence. When we breath in, our bodies are filled with nutrients and nourishment. Our blood is filled with oxygen, our skin gets flush; our bones get… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share
“From blossoms comes this brown paper bag of peaches we bought from the boy at the bend in the road where we turned toward signs painted Peaches. From laden boughs, from hands, from sweet fellowship in the bins, comes nectar of the roadside, succulent peaches we devour, dusty skin and all, comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share
“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 my dead brother’s sleepless brow, the other part the time I waste, the time I won’t have. But which is the lion killed for the sake of the honey inside him, and which the wine, stranded… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share
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
