Quotes About Poem

Perhaps instead it is a matter of an intuition on the poetic order, which establishes unexpected contact between remote elements that do not seem destined to come together. But that poem will never be written or read. I alone will hear it, incapable as I am of even humming it to myself. We are all bearers of such poems, which resist age because they are made only of time.

rhyme being no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse (in longer works especially) but the invention of a barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter ...

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true Poem; that is, a composition and pattern of the best and honourablest things; not presuming to sing high praises of heroic men, or famous cities, unless he have in himself the experience and practice of all that which is praise-worthy.

The interplay between farmers and the elements was a poem without words, the echo which would always return to him. The air could hold the breeze of the rain or the wind of warmth to the discerning nose. The stone carved its memory deep into the hands that chiseled it. Fire was life in the hearth which was the center of home. Water introduced itself to us from its most natural source in streams and wells.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses.

She said, "'I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked…'" She parted the curtains, looked out at the brick wall opposite and the street below. "Never really understood the poem, but I like the way the words taste.

If you look at the sky that way, it's this massive shifting poem, or maybe a letter, first written by one author, and then, when the earth moves, annotated by another. So I stare and stare until, one day, I can read it.

Stelele sunt asezate astfel incat sa formeze litere. Alfabete celeste. Scrieri care se schimba pe masura ce se mischa pamantul. Daca te uiti asa la cer, ai senzatia ca e un imens poem schimbator , sau poate o schrisoare , care initial a avut un autor, apoi, dupa ce pamantul s-a mischat, un alt autor a completat-o . Asa ca stau si ma uit la cer, pana cand , intr-o zi , voi putea s-o citesc.

Everyone who writes with care, who treats words with respect and allows even the humblest its historical and grammatical dignity, participates in the exhilarating work of reclamation. Each essay or poem is its own "raid on the inarticulate," and every written work that forestalls the slow death of speech is a response to Wendell Berry's challenge to "practice resurrection.

Yes there is a Nirvanah: it is in leading your sheep to a green pasture and in putting your child to sleep and in writing the last line of your poem.

To declaim freedom verses seems like a poem within a poem; freedom requires guns, it requires arms, but no feet.

There once was an old man of Lyme who married three wives at a time when asked, 'Why a third?' he replied 'One's absurd! and bigamy, sir, is a crime!'

Does the poem reside in experience or in self-consciousness about experience?

At the tomb, a woman silent all along steps from the circle and says: I want to sing. Neruda. Poem Twenty. Then she climbs atop the tomb and sings: Tonight I can write the saddest verses.

Soon your ashes fly to the veterans' cemetery at Arlington, where once a Confederate general would have counted you among his mules and pigs. This poet's coat is your last poem. I want to write a poem like this coat, with buttons and pockets and green cloth, a poem useful as a coat to a coughing man.

In the republic of poetry, the guard at the airport will not allow you to leave the country until you declaim a poem for her and she says Ah! Beautiful.

I will find you another long-forgotten Queen Mab poem in no time. Depend on it. I refuse to let Cody or anyone else know more about English Literature than me. So calm yourself, Elfish, and let an expert take over.

Por otras 217 razones exactamente igual de locas y porque eres el más hermoso poema viviente, ya sería hora de que te concediesen el Premio Nobel del amor.

New technology, on Earth, just means something you will laugh at in five years. Value the stuff you won't laugh at in five years. Like love. Or a good poem. Or a song. Or the sky.

I'm charming and handsome. They take my pen. I buy the poem from the garden of bees for one euro. A touch on the arm. A mystery word. The sky has two faces. For reasons unaccountable my hand trembles. In Roman times if they were horrified of bees they kept it secret

If this world is a poem, it is not because we see the meaning of it at first but on the strength of its chance occurrences and paradoxes.

In the poem, there is always that present moment which is terribly important through which memory works.

understand what part they played. Symmetry. And because I understood that, I understood that a single painting or composition or poem might change the future. Where its influence might end—if it ever did—was a mystery. I had spent lifetimes watching the effects of my choices, and so I knew that Joseph Hannigan was meant to be the very best of them. The world had put him into my hands; I could only guess at its design. But I knew he