Poetry should begin with emotion in the poet, and end with the same emotion in the reader. The poem is simply the instrument of transferance.
How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.
What will survive of us is love.
I have no enemies. But my friends don't like me.
You can look out of your life like a train & see what you're heading for, but you can't stop the train.
Novels are about other people and poems are about yourself.
As a child, I thought I hated everybody, but when I grew up I realized it was just children I didn't like.
I'm terrified of the thought of time passing (or whatever is meant by that phrase) whether I 'do' anything or not. In a way I may believe, deep down, that doing nothing acts as a brake on 'time's - it doesn't of course. It merely adds the torment of having done nothing, when the time comes when it really doesn't matter if you've done anything or not.
Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are.
Sexual intercourse began in 1963 ... / Between the end of the Chatterley ban/ and the Beatles first LP
We should be careful / Of each other, we should be kind / While there is still time.
A good poem about failure is a success.
I feel the only thing you can do about life is to preserve it, by art if you're an artist, by children if you're not.
I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action
Depression is to me as daffodils were to Wordsworth.
Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, and don't have any kids yourself.
Many modern novels have a beginning, a muddle and an end.
He married a woman to stop her getting away Now she's there all day.
Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.
Selflessness is like waiting in a hospital In a badly-fitting suit on a cold wet morning. Selfishness is like listening to good jazz With drinks for further orders and a huge fire.
Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.
This is the first thing I have understood: Time is the echo of an axe within a wood.
Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are, to recreate the familiar, eternalizing the poet's own perception in unique and original verbal form.
What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. Theyare to be happy in: Where can we live but days?
Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.
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