Not words. nor laughter. but rather someone who will fall in love with your silence.
Everything you invent is true: you can be sure of that. Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry.
Poetry makes nothing happen.
I'd spent way more years worrying about how to look like a poet -- buying black clothes, smearing on scarlet lipstick, languidly draping myself over thrift-store furniture -- than I had learning how to assemble words in some discernible order.
Whatever you get out of poetry - take it. take it. take it. Words are better off felt than understood.
I am filled time and again with a heart-aching wonder when I think of the fire and frost of memories of the everlastingness of love the solace of family and the power of prayer.
depth and substance. the two most exquisite qualities. be it in a poem or a person.
A single poem, alone can turn tides scatter galaxies and burst forth with rivers from paradise.
When there's a moon the shadows in the house grow larger; invisible hands draw back the curtains, a pallid finger writes forgotten words on dust of the piano...
Again I resume the long lesson: how small a thing can be pleasing, how little in this hard world it takes to satisfy the mind and bring it to its rest.
A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
i have laughed more than daffodils and cried more than June.
Freud thought that a psychosis was a waking dream, and that poets were daydreamers too, but I wonder if the reverse is not as often true, and that madness is a fiction lived in like a rented house
At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.
The pure playfulness of certain wholly whimsical portions of (Charles) Crosβs work should not obscure the fact that at the center of some of his most beautiful poems a revolver is leveled straight at us.
When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds β like those horses that are equally good for saddle and carriage, the worst kind, that can neither jump a ditch nor pull a plow.
We must listen to poets.
a silent night. - the most eloquent poem i have ever read.
One could say that artists are people who think naturally in highly patterned ways.
Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.