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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.
Anna Kamienska
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Anna Kamienska
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More quotes by Anna Kamienska
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’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.
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We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.
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I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.
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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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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 write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.
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