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Heaven Quotes
Heaven
by
Jill Alexander Essbaum50 ratings, 4.46 average rating, 7 reviews
Heaven Quotes
Showing 1-30 of 34
“The heart, which
isn't immune to anything, turns numb to all
others, dumb as the muscle that it is,”
― Heaven
isn't immune to anything, turns numb to all
others, dumb as the muscle that it is,”
― Heaven
“You ran quite far and almost
got away. But I set
fire to your ghost,
and the sweet, sick haze
of that burning rose
has found you out.”
― Heaven
got away. But I set
fire to your ghost,
and the sweet, sick haze
of that burning rose
has found you out.”
― Heaven
“When the Kingdom Comes
Your mother is not your mother,
she is something else, a bird nesting in the heart
of a hollowed out tree, a saint whose skin is cool
and soft as apple-flesh, the will of God.
And your brothers are not your brothers,
they are the ash that is all of us,
scattered in its periphery,
unfortunate multitude.
Your sister, your lover, your friend
none of these are yours.
The stone belongs only to the river
which bled it smooth.
What you call your face, that canvas of mercy
which smiles with grief at even November's
drizzle and chill, is the face of someone else,
someone to come, good tidings,
the Christ child in a stable,
cooing as Mary tends such tiny hands.
It is her face that seems so familiar,
the answer to everything whetting the tip of your tongue.
The hairs on your head, they belong only
to themselves, and when they are done
with such a manner of belonging,
they offer themselves to stars
which outnumber them galacticly.
Everything you think is yours is not.
A father had two sons, and one of them
was heavy with desire. Friend—what's lost is found,
forever. You will wear the very best robe.
You will wear rings on every finger
of each hand. And they are not your hands.
They are God's hands
and She formed you with them Herself
turning tricks with clay until finally
the sand sang alleluia, and it was good.
These hands, She will hold like treasure
all the way to Paradise, where under the glimmer of the moon
and the spark of light that fuels every prayer,
She keeps her family. And we will all be there.
And we will all be.”
― Heaven
Your mother is not your mother,
she is something else, a bird nesting in the heart
of a hollowed out tree, a saint whose skin is cool
and soft as apple-flesh, the will of God.
And your brothers are not your brothers,
they are the ash that is all of us,
scattered in its periphery,
unfortunate multitude.
Your sister, your lover, your friend
none of these are yours.
The stone belongs only to the river
which bled it smooth.
What you call your face, that canvas of mercy
which smiles with grief at even November's
drizzle and chill, is the face of someone else,
someone to come, good tidings,
the Christ child in a stable,
cooing as Mary tends such tiny hands.
It is her face that seems so familiar,
the answer to everything whetting the tip of your tongue.
The hairs on your head, they belong only
to themselves, and when they are done
with such a manner of belonging,
they offer themselves to stars
which outnumber them galacticly.
Everything you think is yours is not.
A father had two sons, and one of them
was heavy with desire. Friend—what's lost is found,
forever. You will wear the very best robe.
You will wear rings on every finger
of each hand. And they are not your hands.
They are God's hands
and She formed you with them Herself
turning tricks with clay until finally
the sand sang alleluia, and it was good.
These hands, She will hold like treasure
all the way to Paradise, where under the glimmer of the moon
and the spark of light that fuels every prayer,
She keeps her family. And we will all be there.
And we will all be.”
― Heaven
“He is not here. Where did it go, my grief, my grief?
Once you loved me on a hillside. I was pretty
and tender as silence. Some things I knew well enough:
first you love and then you lose.
I had no idea there was nothing more.”
― Heaven
Once you loved me on a hillside. I was pretty
and tender as silence. Some things I knew well enough:
first you love and then you lose.
I had no idea there was nothing more.”
― Heaven
“Perhaps, but I have eaten bitter decades up
already, just to choke on what is
something more divine than grief,
having swallowed the glories such suffering brings.”
― Heaven
already, just to choke on what is
something more divine than grief,
having swallowed the glories such suffering brings.”
― Heaven
“Paradise
This bridge of moon on bended knee above us
keening twilight and the snake that is
your tongue has taught itself to sing, to sing.
My hand so heavy with your hand, your eyes
brimmed curve to crease with grief, and you chant
Bread will be the body of a king,
someday. With a voice like every nectarine,
so lovely and so bruised, how I am tempted
to you, famished as a rite of spring
mid-winter underneath the tricky snow,
broom-cold, tripping fig over foot, husky
and nervous as the glassy oxen, staggering.
Remember, I am but a rib. I curve
into your spine and wrap about your heart,
fleshless as marrow, your vitreous darling.”
― Heaven
This bridge of moon on bended knee above us
keening twilight and the snake that is
your tongue has taught itself to sing, to sing.
My hand so heavy with your hand, your eyes
brimmed curve to crease with grief, and you chant
Bread will be the body of a king,
someday. With a voice like every nectarine,
so lovely and so bruised, how I am tempted
to you, famished as a rite of spring
mid-winter underneath the tricky snow,
broom-cold, tripping fig over foot, husky
and nervous as the glassy oxen, staggering.
Remember, I am but a rib. I curve
into your spine and wrap about your heart,
fleshless as marrow, your vitreous darling.”
― Heaven
“The Coming
When apple-birds have drowned themselves in milk,
the old bones take it well. They gather smoke
to ink the mountainsides with letters of
regret. And when the moon burns through its orbit,
men take cover in cramped rooms, while all
the dead begin to roil within the ground.
And as He comes, the night completes itself.
The end arrives as if a telegram,
in series, inconsolably. And if
they wish to suckle the Messiah's breast,
it is too late, He's dry. Look to the stars—
a trumpet and a train conclude the sky.”
― Heaven
When apple-birds have drowned themselves in milk,
the old bones take it well. They gather smoke
to ink the mountainsides with letters of
regret. And when the moon burns through its orbit,
men take cover in cramped rooms, while all
the dead begin to roil within the ground.
And as He comes, the night completes itself.
The end arrives as if a telegram,
in series, inconsolably. And if
they wish to suckle the Messiah's breast,
it is too late, He's dry. Look to the stars—
a trumpet and a train conclude the sky.”
― Heaven
“Heaven
To live well under this dark shadow,
it takes deep breathing and a resolution,
for here it is monstrous cold,
and the wind has teeth as large as testament.
I wrap a sweater around the sleeve
of my soul, and night after night,
I sit and I stare at pumpkins, at the moon,
at roses falling short of themselves.
They are thorn and mere bloom,
and I no longer know if they are beautiful,
just as I no longer know if I am beautiful,
and whether I am or I am not, I do not know
if it matters, if it ever did. Nevermind.
I am still as uncertain, or at least just as chill
as this gray sky above, and that one cold hope
success, below, and this unsavory room
of waning passions in between.
I wanted to make music or love,
and having the talents for neither, I settled on both.
Do you see these scars?
They bear the teethmarks of the angels.”
― Heaven
To live well under this dark shadow,
it takes deep breathing and a resolution,
for here it is monstrous cold,
and the wind has teeth as large as testament.
I wrap a sweater around the sleeve
of my soul, and night after night,
I sit and I stare at pumpkins, at the moon,
at roses falling short of themselves.
They are thorn and mere bloom,
and I no longer know if they are beautiful,
just as I no longer know if I am beautiful,
and whether I am or I am not, I do not know
if it matters, if it ever did. Nevermind.
I am still as uncertain, or at least just as chill
as this gray sky above, and that one cold hope
success, below, and this unsavory room
of waning passions in between.
I wanted to make music or love,
and having the talents for neither, I settled on both.
Do you see these scars?
They bear the teethmarks of the angels.”
― Heaven
“Rib
I frown because you frustrate me,
your wooly, muffled voice, and the dishes
that will not do themselves.
I have traded word for weary word
with you and come up short so many sentences,
that I am broke from paying attention.
Maybe I have treated you badly.
I am sorry if I have treated you badly,
but other men have worn me out,
and I no longer make love, it will not last.
So if I linger at the arcs of your chest,
we shall call it mere tenderness, or homecoming.
And if I happen to write sonnets in the honor of us,
I will not drown you in burdens of marigolds,
rather clay, a kiss or two, some serpents looking on.
I am near useless here, and if I cross myself,
it is only because I am that lost,
with nothing left to do for my hands.”
― Heaven
I frown because you frustrate me,
your wooly, muffled voice, and the dishes
that will not do themselves.
I have traded word for weary word
with you and come up short so many sentences,
that I am broke from paying attention.
Maybe I have treated you badly.
I am sorry if I have treated you badly,
but other men have worn me out,
and I no longer make love, it will not last.
So if I linger at the arcs of your chest,
we shall call it mere tenderness, or homecoming.
And if I happen to write sonnets in the honor of us,
I will not drown you in burdens of marigolds,
rather clay, a kiss or two, some serpents looking on.
I am near useless here, and if I cross myself,
it is only because I am that lost,
with nothing left to do for my hands.”
― Heaven
“Thirty-Three
If the martyr is made when the breaking heart breaks open,
and one holds in the crib of her palm the ghost
of something as singular as last night's argument,
then what was mystery is worse—the advent of the end.
They sleep in the sea of a bed, blue as breath,
the tangle of needle-net holding them close.
And if they dance, it is like lanterns on a lake,
as nothing lasts for very long, so frail, those passive vessels.
Imagine the elemental glow and a city of stars still forming,
the work in progress of heaven like the swirl of color
in a vanity rose: where one shade ends the other
may begin, or not, its own red.
She scowls her lover's scowl. When Christ comes
down from the mountain, he marches to Jerusalem unaware.
This is how the dead get by, and the dying make due:
like anyone, they are preserved with such affection as to disenchant their grief.”
― Heaven
If the martyr is made when the breaking heart breaks open,
and one holds in the crib of her palm the ghost
of something as singular as last night's argument,
then what was mystery is worse—the advent of the end.
They sleep in the sea of a bed, blue as breath,
the tangle of needle-net holding them close.
And if they dance, it is like lanterns on a lake,
as nothing lasts for very long, so frail, those passive vessels.
Imagine the elemental glow and a city of stars still forming,
the work in progress of heaven like the swirl of color
in a vanity rose: where one shade ends the other
may begin, or not, its own red.
She scowls her lover's scowl. When Christ comes
down from the mountain, he marches to Jerusalem unaware.
This is how the dead get by, and the dying make due:
like anyone, they are preserved with such affection as to disenchant their grief.”
― Heaven
“Dim mirror above, reflect more brightly upon us all.
From here, I see nothing but myself
and the face of me is trembling.”
― Heaven
From here, I see nothing but myself
and the face of me is trembling.”
― Heaven
“Dizzy and cold, the stars are wearing veils of grief
and weeping as if over me.
Under such a sky the only sense I have of myself is senselessness—the indiscriminate aching
in the spoon of my neck which comes
like noise in the night, quick
and hysterical, the breaking up of things
that should not be so fragile.”
― Heaven
and weeping as if over me.
Under such a sky the only sense I have of myself is senselessness—the indiscriminate aching
in the spoon of my neck which comes
like noise in the night, quick
and hysterical, the breaking up of things
that should not be so fragile.”
― Heaven
“How far away they seem, each of those nights
that I slept with my body curled into the absence of yours,”
― Heaven
that I slept with my body curled into the absence of yours,”
― Heaven
“They seemed blanker
than when first they left, as if Heaven were a clinic,
and they were cured.”
― Heaven
than when first they left, as if Heaven were a clinic,
and they were cured.”
― Heaven
“Tongues of Fire
This is what's become of us: I am
confused by mourning, and he is the sun
that goes to sleep on top of me, undone
by moonrise. Lover, all I speak is iambs
and slant rhyme. That devil lamb
of light called hope is sacrificed and none
too pleased with having lost its bleat. The stone
has rolled away but God's not gone and damn
it, I'm no fan of the weather here, it rains
too often, bones of doves and angel down
until the ground stains red with sighs and blood.
It is wet and cold. Will you explain
again the why of all there is and how
he caught me in the act, discovering God?”
― Heaven
This is what's become of us: I am
confused by mourning, and he is the sun
that goes to sleep on top of me, undone
by moonrise. Lover, all I speak is iambs
and slant rhyme. That devil lamb
of light called hope is sacrificed and none
too pleased with having lost its bleat. The stone
has rolled away but God's not gone and damn
it, I'm no fan of the weather here, it rains
too often, bones of doves and angel down
until the ground stains red with sighs and blood.
It is wet and cold. Will you explain
again the why of all there is and how
he caught me in the act, discovering God?”
― Heaven
