If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.
In the end, there is no end.
The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.
We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.
Those blessed structures, plot and rhyme--
why are they no help to me now
I want to make
something imagined, not recalled?
It is night,
And it is vanity, and age
Blackens the heart of Adam. Fear,
The yellow chirper, beaks its cage.
Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime
I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.
Sometimes nothing is so solid to me as writing - I suppose that's what a vocation means - at times a torment, a bad conscience, but all in all, purpose and direction.
Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.
What can the dove of Jesus give
You now but wisdom, exile? Stand and live,
The dove has brought an olive branch to eat.
Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.
I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.
I was overcome with an attack of pathological enthusiasm.
In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.
The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
Pity the planet, all joy gone
from this sweet volcanic cone
Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.
I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn.
Life begins to happen.
My hoppped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes
Once fishing was a rabbit's foot--
O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot
History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had -
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
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