Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels.
Most women know that sex isgood for headaches.
It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, a congress of all those who have taught him and whom he has admired; they constitute his ideal audience and his better self.
I would feel dead if I didn't have the ability periodically to put my world in order with a poem. I think to be inarticulate is a great suffering, and is especially so to anyone who has a certain knack for poetry.
We know what boredom is: it is a dull
Impatience or a fierce velleity,
A champing wish, stalled by our lassitude,
To make or do. In the strict sense, of course,
We invent nothing, merely bearing witness
To what each morning brings again to light
There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.
Odd that a thing is most itself when likened
The strength of the genie comes from being in a bottle.
All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know
What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you.
Caught Summer is always an imagined time. Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind. There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find Riding the palest days Its perfect blaze.
The eye is pleased when nature stoops to art.
Columbus and his men, they say, Conveyed the virus hither Whereby my features rot away And vital powers wither; Yet had they not traversed the seas And come infected back, Why, think of all the luxuries That modern life would lack.
Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.
What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?
That's the main business of the poem!-to see if you can't make up a language that sets all your selves talking at once-all of them being fair to each other.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.
Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you.
Teach me, like you, to drink creation whole/ And casting out myself, become a soul.
To claim, at a dead party, to have spotted a grackle,
When in fact you haven't of late, can do no harm.
Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.
Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.
Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.
A thrush, because I'd been wrong, Burst rightly into song In a world not vague, not lonely, Not governed by me only.
What you hope for Is that at some point of the pointless journey, Indoors or out, and when you least expect it, Right in the middle of your stride, like that, So neatly that you never feel a thing, The kind assassin Sleep will draw a bead And blow your brains out.
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