There are poems that are never written, that simply move across the mind like skywriting on a still … - Linda Pastan

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Even if the being is not entirely purified, varieties of inspirations and powers may come down from above but this may lead to serious errors. Inspirations from above mixing with the impurities from below get all muddled up and the sadhak takes this for an absolute command. Many a sadhak has thus fallen into danger. Therefore, one must particularly lay stress on the purification of the being.

Linda Pastan

There are poems that are never written, that simply move across the mind like skywriting on a still day: slowly the first word drifts west, the last letters dissolve on the tongue, and what is left is the pure blue of insight, without cloud or comfort.

Across, Blue, Clouds, Letters, Moving, Slowly

Same Author Quotes

Poetry is not a code to be broken but a way of seeing with the eyes shut.

Eye, Broken, Way, Code, Seeing

I made a list of things I have to remember and a list of things I want to forget, but I see they are the same list.

Forget, List, Lists, Remember, See, Want

What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book and these things bear our names - now they want us. But what we want appears in dreams, wearing disguises. We fall past, holding out our arms and in the morning our arms ache. We don't remember the dream, but the dream remembers us. It is there all day as an animal is there under the table, as the stars are there.

Ache, Dream, Holding, Morning, Room, Stars

I am tired of the litany of months, September October I am tired of the way the seasons keep changing, mimicking the seasons of the flesh which are real and finite.

Changing, Flesh, Real, Seasons, Tired, Way

Just looking at them I grow greedy, as if they were freshly baked loaves waiting on their shelves to be broken open--that one and that--and I make my choice in a mood of exalted luck, browsing among them like a cow in sweetest pasture. For life is continuous as long as they wait to be read--these inked paths opening into the future, page after page, every book its own receding horizon. And I hold them, one in each hand, a curious ballast weighing me here to earth.

Book, Broken, Hands, Inked, Long, Pasture