Quotes About Poem

Come windless invader I am a carnival of Stars, a poem of blood.

the truth of a poem is its form and its content, its music and its meaning are the same.

Across the feral golf course on the other side of the fence, a million insects played a one-note tone poem entitled Heat.

The whole world of publishing is moving to electronic, but when you put a poem on a screen and you increase the type size, the shape of a poem changes.

It was during my stint at Café Society that a song was born which became my personal protest—" Strange Fruit." The germ of the song was in a poem written by Lewis Allen. I first met him at Café Society. When he showed me that poem, I dug it right off. It seemed to spell out all the things that had killed Pop.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

The tone of voice influences the wisest of us and alters the force of a speech or a poem.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ --from Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices, written 1962

Mother of otherness, Eat me. --from Poem for a Birthday - Who, written 1960

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse. --from Poem For A Birthday - The Stones, written 1959

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

O my Homunculus, I am ill. I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling. From the poem Cut, 24 October 1962

It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.

Do you know what a poem is, Esther?' 'No, what?' I would say. 'A piece of dust.' Then, just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.

Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying, "Do you know what a poem is, Esther?" "No, what?" I would say. "A piece of dust." Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, "So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.

Do you know what a poem is, Esther?" "No, what?" I said. "A piece of dust.

And they have condemned you for being mad. Just like that. Because the fear is already there, and has been for so long. The fear that all the edges and shapes and colors of the real world that have been built up again so painfully with such a real love can dwindle in a moment of doubt, and "suddenly go out" the way the moon would in the Blake poem.

He is haunted by a demon, a demon against which he feels powerless, because in its first manifestation it has no face, no name, nothing; and the words, the poem he makes, are a kind of exorcism of this demon.

Everything that is tearing us down today will become a memory, and this memory will be shared as an anecdote or a story or a poem or a play or a warning. It will be shared with another human being, who will then understand that he is not alone in his sadness. This is why we show up for others and tell our tales and listen to others. The great congregation meets daily, and you are someone's angel today. (In an Interview with James Grissom)

Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life. Happy was she who was in the room, who had the freedom of the city in everything that she touched or came in contact with, a fish swimming downstream, a leaf on a tree, a cloud in the sky, an image in a poem. Fish, leaf, cloud, image: that's it precisely, unless…

Though the body is its genesis, a poem is the vision of a process Out of ceaseless motion in edgeless space Carved in space, vision your poor eye's single armor against winter spring summer fall

Poem on anorexic): The only way to escape the history of styles is not to have a body.