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Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production read more
Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production of an individual mind .
If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call read more
If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is no poverty.
A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed read more
A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul.".
Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.
Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
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).
Oh love will make a dog howl in rhyme.
Oh love will make a dog howl in rhyme.
The poem is the point at which our strength gave out.
The poem is the point at which our strength gave out.
