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Into the paradise of euphony, the good poet must introduce hell. Broken paradises are the only kind worth reading.

Mark Doty

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Mark Doty
Age: 71
Born: 1953
Born: August 10
Poet
Maryville
Tennessee
Kind
Introducing
Good
Paradise
Poet
Broken
Worth
Hell
Reading
Paradises
Must
Introduce

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What did you think, that joy / was some slight thing?
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... the attempt to render visual intricacy makes words feel unwieldy, like sacks of meaning that must be lugged into place, dragged here and there, then still don't fell accurate.
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No such thing, the queen said, as too many sequins.
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All my life I've lived with a future which constantly diminishes but never vanishes.
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Desire can make anything into a god.
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To choose to live with a dog is to agree to participate in a long process of interpretation, a mutual agreement though the human being holds most of the cards.
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And then we ease him out of that worn-out body with a kiss, and he's gone like a whisper, the easiest breath.
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We long to connect we fear that if we do, our freedom and individuality will disappear.
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Poetry is an investigation, not an expression, of what you know.
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We learn to treasure words that people call us we learn to live by words that hurt. We cannot toss them aside, so in time they become our dignity.
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Here and gone. That’s what it is to be human, I think—to be both someone and no one at once, to hold a particular identity in the world (our names, our place of origins, our family and affectional ties) and to feel that solid set of ties also capable of dissolution, slipping away, as we become moments of attention.
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Because the golden egg gleamed in my basket once, though my childhood became an immense sheet of darkening water I was Noah, and I was his ark, and there were two of every animal inside me
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This is what history is: all those centuries of bodies, moving over these canals, twisting and blooming into life in these houses, these streets all that flesh hungering, coming together, separating, continuing, accumulating, relinquishing, aging and breaking down. Bodies as tulips bent to the demands of light, colored into blossom, spent.
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I want what everybody wants, that's how I know I'm still breathing.
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Love, I think, is a gateway to the world, not an escape from it.
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Poetry is ... the physical enactment of a process of knowing by means of language.
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It's freeing, to think that there's always an aspect of us outside the grasp of speech, the common stuff of language.
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Even sad stories are company. And perhaps that's why you might read such a chronicle, to look into a companionable darkness that isn't yours.
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We love disasters that have nothing to do with us
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