A poet dares to be just so clear and no clearer he approaches lucid ground warily like a mariner who is determined not to scrape his bottom on anything solid. A poet's pleasure is to withhold a litt...
poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.
Words are fossilized butterfly wings,pretty to look at sometimes,but only good for Museums.I want to miserably burn down the Museums.
wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.
Sail Forth- Steer for the deep waters only. Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me. For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go. And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all...
Any society that produces twice as many lawyers as it does poets and preachers is doomed.
Not everyone who drinks is a poet. Some of us drink because we're not poets.
Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.
Although all days are equally long regardless of the season, some days are long not only seasonally but by rewards they offer.
They say that history is going on somewhere.They say it won't stop. I have heldOne picture still for a long time and waited.
A poem is a meteor.
Imagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is reason. Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am...
I find my data first in myself, not first in the poets. For if I did not find it in myself, I would not be able to find it in the poets.
I don't really feel my poems are mine at all. I didn't create them out of nothing. I owe them to my relations with other people.
Miltons were, on the whole, the most enthusiastic poet followers. A flick through the London telephone directory would yield about four thousand John Miltons, two thousand William Blakes, a thousand o...
Tell me something only you know and make a new friend.
What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.
There can be no forced inspiration.
Poetry is all nouns and verbs.
But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?