Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong: They learn in suffering what they teach in song.
No matter how much we learn, there is always more knowledge to be gained. In this connection I am reminded of a short poem that has been in my mind over the years. It reads as follow: I used to think I knew I knew. But now I must confess. The more I know I know I know I know I know the less.
Starry Starry night Paint your palette blue and gray Look out on a summer's day With eyes that know the darkness in my soul Shadows on the hills Sketch the trees and the daffodils Catch the breeze and the winter chills In colors on the snowy linen land.
They swayed about upon a rocking horse, And thought it Pegasus.
Poetry implies the whole truth. Philosophy expresses a particle of it.
Writing is a socially acceptable form of getting naked in public
Still looking for that blue jean, baby queen, prettiest girl that I ever seen. See her shake on the movie screen, Jimmy Dean.
The Earth is our mother just turning around, with her trees in the forest and roots underground. Our father above us whose sigh is the wind, paint us a rainbow without any end.
The hand above turns those leaves of loves, all in all a timeless view. Each dream of life flung from paradise everlasting, ever new.
The moon is swimming naked and the summer night is fragrant with a mighty expectation of relief.
This morning came on to me, silver wings silhouetted against the child's sunrise.
We believe we will raise the sky, we got to fly over the land, over the sea. Fate unwinds and if we die, souls arise. God, do not seize me please.
Went looking for faith on the forest floor, and it showed up everywhere. In the sun, and the water, and the falling leaves, the falling leaves of time.
When the rhythm and night ride, no heart can hide.
When you touch me there, honey, makes my blood perspire, you got my body flaming like a California fire. Pulsing, pounding, pushing no longer in control, heatwave in my brain, smolder in my soul.
Writhe and sway to music's pain searing with asides, caress death with a lover's touch for it shall be your bride.
You make a right on L, make a left on O, come to a green light and that's when you can go. You keep straight on V, until you come to E, that's when you see a big sign that say's welcome to Love Street.
You snipe so steady, you snub so snide, so rip and ready to diminish and deride.
Young and old will sit and judge unfeeling, while the empty churches' bells are pealing. And the green hills lay ignored, untended, lonely watchers remain unbefriended.
Poetry is the special medium of spiritual crazy wisdom, the form of expression that comes closest to creating a bridge between words and what is wordless.
The greatest poem is not that which is most skillfully constructed, but that in which there is the most poetry.
A poet dares to be just so clear and no clearer; he approaches lucid ground warily, like a mariner who is determined not to scrape his bottom on anything solid. A poet's pleasure is to withhold a little of his meaning, to intensify by mystification. He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.
Poetry is a mug's game.
When a great poet has lived, certain things have been done once for all, and cannot be achieved again.
Poetry should be common in experience but uncommon in books.
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