“What can I say to convince you the Houses of Parliament dissolve night after night to become the fluid dream of the Thames? I will not return to a universe of objects that don’t know each other, as if islands… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
“What can I say to convince you the Houses of Parliament dissolve night after night to become the fluid dream of the Thames? I… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
I am imprinted with the whole sense of European history, especially German history, going back to World War I, which really destroyed all the… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
Poetry, for me, is the answer to, 'How does one stay sane when private lives are being ransacked by public events?' It's something that… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
When I was in college, I did do some writing of poetry, somewhat inspired, I think at that time, by Carl Sandburg, because English… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
What luxury, to be so happy that we can grieve over imaginary lives. — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
“By the time I arrive at evening, / they have just settled down to rest; / already invisible, they are turning / into the… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
Everything is autobiography, even if one writes something that is totally objective. The fact that it's a subject that seizes you makes it autobiographical. — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
“Late Hours" On summer nights the world moves within earshot on the interstate with its swish and growl, and occasional siren that sends chills… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
“What happened is, we grew lonely living among the things, so we gave the clock a face, the chair a back, the table four… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
“I will not return to a universe of objects that do not know each other, as if islands were not the long lost children… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
“Someone was always leaving and never coming back. The wooden houses wait like old wives along this road; they are everywhere, abandoned, leaning, turning… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
“What happened is, we grew lonely living among the things, so we gave the clock a face, the chair a back, the table four… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
How swiftly the strained honey of afternoon light flows into darkness and the closed bud shrugs off its special mystery in order to break… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
“Whatever was bound to happen in my story did not happen. But I know there are rules that cannot be broken. Perhaps a name… — Lisel Mueller Copy Share Image
