can't even sleep through the night without you and those sun-dried ginger ale complected limbs crocheted into my thighs...
in a worldfull oftemporary thingsyou area perpetual feeling.
someday i will walk under the soul-blossom tree with my hand eternally woven in yours.
It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.
It is clear enough that not every something can be elevated to the rank of a thing - otherwise everything and everyone would be speaking once more, and the chatter would spread from humans to things....
Battle for the sake of honor may be a fine thing for bards to sing of, but it is no way to preserve one's homeland
A single poemis worth a hundredcozy winter nightskind wordsand healed wounds.
But give thanks, at least, that you still have Frost's poems; and when you feel the need of solitude, retreat to the companionship of moon, water, hills and trees. Retreat, he reminds us, should not b...
The writing talent of Edinburgh is textured - we have poets, novelists, non-fiction writers, dramatists and more.
I used to know Brian Howard well -- a dazzling young man to my innocent eyes. In later life he became very dangerous -- constantly attacking people with his fists in public places -- so I kept clear o...
A chronic poet should always be an inveterate nature-lover.
And when they dusted my mind for your fingerprints they found yours.
Madness is loving the unsolvable puzzle of your soul and replacing the lost pieces with my own.
I am alive to a usual objection to what is clearly part of my programme for the metier of poetry. The objection is that the doctrine requires a ridiculous amount of erudition (pedantry), a claim which...
My words are my children. I am eternally grateful to the womb of my mind for conceiving them.
For the novelist or poet, for the scientist or artist, the question is not do ideas come from, the question is how they come. The is the mystery. The how is fragile.
She day-dreams just as I do. She is addicted to her solitude just as I am. She loves watching the rain-drops fall slowly on to the green leaves of an old guava tree just as I do. She loves drifting in...
you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.
a silent night. - the most eloquent poem i have ever read.
They have the guns, we have the poets. Therefore, we will win.