Thrall Quotes
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Thrall Quotes
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“A man's pursuit of knowledge is greater than his shortcomings, the limits of his vision.”
― Thrall
― Thrall
“Illumination
Always there is something more to know
what lingers at the edge of thought
awaiting illumination as in
this second-hand book full
of annotations daring the margins in pencil
a light stroke as if
the writer of these small replies
meant not to leave them forever
meant to erase
evidence of this private interaction
Here a passage underlined there
a single star on the page
as in a night sky cloud-swept and hazy
where only the brightest appears
a tiny spark I follow
its coded message try to read in it
the direction of the solitary mind
that thought to pencil in
a jagged arrow It
is a bolt of lightning
where it strikes
I read the line over and over
as if I might discern
the little fires set
the flames of an idea licking the page
how knowledge burns Beyond
the exclamation point
its thin agreement angle of surprise
there are questions the word why
So much is left
untold Between
the printed words and the self-conscious scrawl
between what is said and not
white space framing the story
the way the past unwritten
eludes us So much
is implication the afterimage
of measured syntax always there
ghosting the margins that words
their black-lined authority
do not cross Even
as they rise up to meet us
the white page hovers beneath
silent incendiary waiting”
― Thrall
Always there is something more to know
what lingers at the edge of thought
awaiting illumination as in
this second-hand book full
of annotations daring the margins in pencil
a light stroke as if
the writer of these small replies
meant not to leave them forever
meant to erase
evidence of this private interaction
Here a passage underlined there
a single star on the page
as in a night sky cloud-swept and hazy
where only the brightest appears
a tiny spark I follow
its coded message try to read in it
the direction of the solitary mind
that thought to pencil in
a jagged arrow It
is a bolt of lightning
where it strikes
I read the line over and over
as if I might discern
the little fires set
the flames of an idea licking the page
how knowledge burns Beyond
the exclamation point
its thin agreement angle of surprise
there are questions the word why
So much is left
untold Between
the printed words and the self-conscious scrawl
between what is said and not
white space framing the story
the way the past unwritten
eludes us So much
is implication the afterimage
of measured syntax always there
ghosting the margins that words
their black-lined authority
do not cross Even
as they rise up to meet us
the white page hovers beneath
silent incendiary waiting”
― Thrall
“Here is the threshold I do not cross: a sliver of light through the doorway finds his tattoo, the anchor on his forearm tangled in its chain.”
― Thrall
― Thrall
“The servant, still a child, cranes
his neck, turns his face
up toward all of them. He is dark
as history, origin of the word
native: the weight of blood,
a pale mistress on his back,
heavier every year.”
― Thrall
his neck, turns his face
up toward all of them. He is dark
as history, origin of the word
native: the weight of blood,
a pale mistress on his back,
heavier every year.”
― Thrall
“Artifact
As long as I can remember you kept the rifle--
your grandfather's an antique you called it-
in your study, propped against the tall shelves
that held your many books. Upright,
beside those hard-worn spins, it was another
backbone of your pas, a remnant I studied
as if it might unlock-- like the skeleton key
its long body resembled-- some door i had yet
to find. Peering into the dark muzzle, I imagined a bullet
as you described: spiraling through the bore
and spinning straight for its target. It did not hit me
then: the rifle I'd inherited showing me
how one life is bound to another, that hardship
endures. For years I admired its slender profile,
until-- late one night, somber with drink--you told me
it still worked, that you kept it loaded just in case,
and I saw the rifle for what it is; a relic
sharp as sorrow, the barrel hollow as regret.”
― Thrall
As long as I can remember you kept the rifle--
your grandfather's an antique you called it-
in your study, propped against the tall shelves
that held your many books. Upright,
beside those hard-worn spins, it was another
backbone of your pas, a remnant I studied
as if it might unlock-- like the skeleton key
its long body resembled-- some door i had yet
to find. Peering into the dark muzzle, I imagined a bullet
as you described: spiraling through the bore
and spinning straight for its target. It did not hit me
then: the rifle I'd inherited showing me
how one life is bound to another, that hardship
endures. For years I admired its slender profile,
until-- late one night, somber with drink--you told me
it still worked, that you kept it loaded just in case,
and I saw the rifle for what it is; a relic
sharp as sorrow, the barrel hollow as regret.”
― Thrall
“If not immanence,
the soul's bright anchor--blood passed from one
to the other--what knowledge haunts each body,
what history, what phantom ache? One man always
low, in a grave or on the ground, the other
up high, closer to heaven; one man always diseased,
the other a body in service, plundered.”
― Thrall
the soul's bright anchor--blood passed from one
to the other--what knowledge haunts each body,
what history, what phantom ache? One man always
low, in a grave or on the ground, the other
up high, closer to heaven; one man always diseased,
the other a body in service, plundered.”
― Thrall