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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

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Anna Kamienska
Conversation
Unsaid
Level
Underneath
Value
Conversations
Levels
Missed
Learned
Failed
Understanding
Confusion
Values
Connections
Another
Remains
Confusions

More quotes by Anna Kamienska

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Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.
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I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.
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I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.
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Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.
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Tell me what's the difference
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I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played.
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Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.
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I write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.
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We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.
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My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the various layers of silence.
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I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.
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I returned to confirm there can be no return.
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Even a painful longing is some form of presence.
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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 think yourself to death?
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Tell me what’s the difference between hope and waiting because my heart doesn’t know It constantly cuts itself on the glass of waiting It constantly gets lost in the fog of hope
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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.
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There are things better left untouched by words.
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