All forms of landscape are autobiographical. Charles Wright More Quotes by Charles Wright More Quotes From Charles Wright The music of memory has its own pitch,/which not everyone hears. Charles Wright memories We've all led raucous lives, some of them inside, some of them out. But only the poem you leave behind is what's important. Everyone knows this. The voyage into the interior is all that matters, Whatever your ride. Sometimes I can't sit still for all the asininities I read. Give me the hummingbird, who has to eat sixty times His own weight a day just to stay alive. Now that's a life on the edge. Charles Wright alive important giving How sweet the past is, no matter how wrong, or how sad. Charles Wright yesterday sweet past It may not be written in any book, but it is written - You can't go back, you can't repeat the unrepeatable. Charles Wright repeats may book Some people have everything Charles Wright want mean people If you want great tranquility/ It's hard work and a long walk Charles Wright long-walks hard-work want What makes us leave what we love best? What is it inside us that keeps erasing itself When we need it most, That sends us into uncertainty for its own sake And holds us flush there until we begin to love it And have to begin again? What is it within our own lives we decline to live Whenever we find it, making our days unendurable, And nights almost visionless? I still don't know yet, but I do it. Charles Wright sake night needs I empty myself with light Charles Wright empty light morning Our dreams are luminous, a cast fire upon the world. Morning arrives and that's it. Sunlight darkens the earth. Charles Wright fire dream morning The ache for anything is a thick dust in the heart. Charles Wright ache dust heart It’s up there, and you can see the front of it. But what it is isn’t what you’re looking at. It’s behind what you’re looking at. Charles Wright fronts behinds Snub end of a dismal year, Charles Wright stars fire dark It's linkage I'm talking about, and harmonies and structures, And all the various things that lock our wrists to the past. Charles Wright locks talking past Poetry is the dark side of the moon. Charles Wright moon dark sides Everyone knows this. Charles Wright voyages interiors matter How many times can summer turn to fall in one life? Charles Wright turns summer fall How many years have slipped through our hands? At least as many as the constellations we still can identify. The quarter moon, like a light skiff, floats out of the mist-remnants Of last night’s hard rain. It, too, will slip through our fingers with no ripple, without us in it. Charles Wright moon rain night November’s a burn and an ache. Charles Wright november ache
