Ada Limon Quotes

All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles
and ghosts of men, and spirits
behind those birds of flame.
I cannot tell anymore when a door opens or closes,
I can only hear the frame saying, Walk through.

I denied it,
this new land. But love, I'll concede this:
whatever state you are, I'll be that state's bird,
the loud, obvious blur of song people point to
when they wonder where it is you've gone.

All I've been working on is napping, and maybe being kinder to others, to myself.

...this life is a fist
of fast wishes caught by nothing
but the fishhook of tomorrow's tug.

I am not obsessing.
I am just sitting here
perforating this post-it
with a push-pin.

Precise, graceful, and generous, the poems in SuperLoop, seem to be born out of a deep, careful attention and a profound compassion. Sometimes the quiet observer, sometimes the kid in the center of the messed-up carnival, these poems are the fireflies you've missed all winter, the longed-for return of the bees. Unaffected and inherently hopeful, Callihan's work is as merciful as it is moving.

No one wants to be remembered for their death, or rather, I don't. So why do I remember hers and remember hers? I

Here is my sacrifice: my hummingbird landing in a stranger's palm.

Not so much living, but a hovering without sense.

I know
you don't always understand,
but let me point to the first
wet drops landing on the stones,
the noise like fingers drumming
the skin. I can't help it. I will
never get over making everything
such a big deal.

Months later, when we went on our first date, I tried to seem put together, I wore a shawl she had given me. And her ring. I thought everything was behind me: death, and dying, and sickness. I didn't know I was changing my life - that I would have done anything, that what was left of me would become so ruthless to survive.

What I didn't like was how people talked to me
now that I was no longer single; they were nicer.
Men who never looked at me would start up a conversation,
like I was suddenly some safer form of fire.

Don't think about Laika in orbit. Don't think about cringe and catastrophe.

I'm the hidden bug in the tall weeds,
lighting fires no one can see.

Sometimes, you just want
something so bad you have to lie about it,
so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute,
how real hunger has a real taste.

When she was dying, it was impossible to see forward to the next minute. What was happening - for whole weeks - was all that was happening and happening and happening. Months before that, I got the dumb soup wrong. How awful. It was all she wanted and I had gotten it wrong. Then, in the airless days when it was really happening, we started to power panic that we didn't know enough. What should we do with your ashes? Water or dirt. Water or dirt. Once, she asked to just be thrown into the river where we used to go, still alive, but not living anymore. After it was done, I couldn't go back to my life. You understand, right? It wasn't the same. I couldn't tell if I loved myself more or less. It wasn't until later, when I moved in with him and stood outside on our patchy imperfect lawn, that I remembered what had been circling in me: I am beautiful. I am full of love. I am dying.

People have done this before, but not us.

I wanted to be a hummingbird.
It made sense to long for rapid wings and the ability to hover always
to be Huitzilopochtli taming my snakes.
Sometimes though, the thought exhausts me and
I want to be a slow horse, a tennis shoe.

My mother's psychic says, everyone essentially wants
the same thing as everyone else, a sense of belonging, a coming home.

Desire is a tricky thing, the boiling of the body's wants,

Here it is: the new way of living with the world inside of us so we cannot lose it, and we cannot be lost. You and me are us and then, and it and sky.

But what I forgot was that it was our plan, not hers, not the one doing the dying, this was a plan for those who still had a next. See, our job was simple: keep on living. Her job was harder, the hardest.

I mean, it's hard to talk about death without realizing that's our end too, right? I am constantly aware of death. It's not that I want to be, but it's a fascination of the mind and it plays a role in why I want to live my life a certain way. The more I am aware of my mortality the better person I am and the better I am at choosing a life that is aware of its beauty.

Bellow

"Tell the range and all that's howling,
the flickers of life beyond the weeds,
the vulture's furrowed brow of flight,
the blasted sticky Canadian lawn thistle;
tell the clowned-out clouds and the rain,
and all that makes you go quiet again,
tell them that you didn't come here
to make a fuss, or break, or growl, or
scream; tell them-crazy sky and stars
between-tell them you didn't come
to disturb the night air and throw a fit,
then get down in the dark and do it.

There remains the mystery of how the pupil devours so much bastard beauty. Abandoned property.

This land and I are rewilding.

I'm learning so many different ways to be quiet. There's how I stand in the lawn, that's one way. There's also how I stand in the field across from the street, that's another way because I'm farther from people and therefore more likely to be alone. There's how I don't answer the phone, and how I sometimes like to lie down on the floor in the kitchen and pretend I'm not home when people knock. There's daytime silent where I stare, and a nighttime silent when I do things. There's shower silent and bath silent and California silent and Kentucky silent and car silent and then there's the silence that comes back, a million times bigger than me, sneaks into my bones and wails and wails and wails until I can't be quiet anymore. That's how this machine works.

I will play on this blessed earth until I die.

What if, instead of carrying

a child, I am supposed to carry grief?