Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.
I decided I would go to Chicago and try my luck as a writer after those eight months as a fireman.
Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-headed child.
Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
I never made a mistake in grammar but one in my life and as soon as I done it I seen it.
I doubt if you can have a truly wild party without liquor.
And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release — out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know?
Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
Not often in the story of mankind does a man arrive on earth who is both steel and velvet, who is as hard as rock and soft as drifting fog, who holds in his heart and mind the paradox of terrible storm and peace unspeakable and perfect.
There is only one child in the world and the Child’s name is All Children.
Tongues wrangled dark at a man. He buttoned his overcoat and stood alone. In a snowstorm, red hollyberries, thoughts, he stood alone.
Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.
The past is a bucket of ashes
Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are.
We don't have to think up a title till we get the doggone book written.
Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.
Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger! But leave me a little love.
Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, "Come and find me, come and find me."
Poetry is a puppet-show, where riders of skyrockets and divers of sea fathoms gossip about the sixth sense and the fourth dimension.
Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
There is a formal poetry perfect only in form?the number of syllables, the designated and required stresses of accent, the rhymes if wantedthey come off with the skill of a solved crossword puzzle.
Gather the stars if you wish it so Gather the songs and keep them. Gather the faces of women. Gather for keeping years and years. And then... Loosen your hands, let go and say good-bye. Let the stars and songs go. Let the faces and years go. Loosen your hands and say good-bye.
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