CONSIDERING THE VOID
When I behold the charm
of evening skies, their lulling endurance;
the patterns of stars with read more

CONSIDERING THE VOID
When I behold the charm
of evening skies, their lulling endurance;
the patterns of stars with names
of bears and dogs, a swan, a virgin;
other planets that the Voyager showed
were like and so unlike our own,
with all their diverse moons,
bright discs, weird rings, and cratered faces;
comets with their streaming tails
bent by pressure from our sun;
the skyscape of our Milky Way
holding in its shimmering disc
an infinity of suns
(or say a thousand billion);
knowing there are holes of darkness
gulping mass and even light,
knowing that this galaxy of ours
is one of multitudes
in what we call the heavens,
it troubles me. It troubles me.
-President Jimmy Carter- (he has written a volume of poetry as well as a novel, The Hornet's Nest,
about the Revolutionary War).

A poet is someone who is astonished by everything.

A poet is someone who is astonished by everything.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly read more

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in;
Free from all meaning whether good or bad,
And in one word, heroically mad.

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column:
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column:
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

A poem is never finished, only abandoned.

A poem is never finished, only abandoned.

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.