Poetry is statement of a series of equations, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors, pools, skies, the only never-changing sign being the sign of infinity.
Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables.
I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg. And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years,and passengers ask the conductor- What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.
Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.
A book is never a masterpiece: it becomes one. Genius is the talent of a dead man.
I'll die propped up in bed trying to do a poem about America.
Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
Didn't you tie the mittens on her feet (Wednesday Evening's) extra special nice? Yes--she is an extra special nice pigeon. She cries for pity when she wants pity. And she shuts her eyes when she doesn't want to look at you. And if you look deep in her eyes when her eyes are open you will see lights there exactly like the lights on the pastures and the meadows when the mist is drifting on a Wednesday evening just between the twilight and gloaming.
The wind bit hard at Valley Forge one Christmas. Soldiers tied rags on their feet. Red footprints wrote on the snow...
We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
Poetry is a sequence of dots and dashes, spelling depths, crypts, cross-lights, and moon wisps.
Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.
The more rhymethere isin poetry the more dangerof its tricking the writer into something other than the urge in the beginning.
Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.
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