To pull the metal splinter from my palm my father recited a story in a low voice. I watched his lovely face and not the blade. Before the story ended, he'd removed the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.… — 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 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… — 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
