Quotes About Poetry

For in this way the God would seem to indicate to us and not allow us to doubt that these beautiful poems are not human, or the work of man, but divine and the work of God; and that the poets are only the interpreters of the Gods by whom they are severally possessed.

Everything that is responsible for creating something out of nothing is a kind of poetry; and so all the creations of every craft and profession are themselves a kind of poetry, and everyone who practices a craft is a poet.

For the rhapsode ought to interpret the mind of the poet to his hearers, but how can he interpret him well unless he knows what he means?

Conocí desde luego que no es la sabiduría la que guía a los poetas, sino ciertos movimientos de la naturaleza y un entusiasmo semejante al de los profetas y adivinos; que todos dicen muy buenas cosas, sin comprender nada de lo que dicen.

Wenn du der Träumer bist, Bin ich dein traum. Doch wenn du wachen willst, Bin ich dein Wille. Und werde mächtig aller Herrlichkeit Und ründe mich wie eine sternenstille Über der wunderlichen Stadt der Zeit

That's it? That's your big goodbye? Eve asked. Claire looked at Eve mystified. I think I need guy CliffNotes. Guys aren't deep enough to need CliffNotes. What were you waiting for, flowery poetry? Shane snorted. I hugged. I'm done.

Now, whom are we here to conspire against?' 'Poetry,' I said. 'Namely, Romeo's poetry.' 'Is it that bad?

The terrible poetry of human nudity, I understand it at last, I who tremble for the first time in trying to read it with blasé eyes.

NOTICIARIO DE UN COLEGIAL MELANCÓLICO NOMINATIVO: la nieve GENITIVO: de la nieve DATIVO: a o para la nieve ACUSATIVO: a la nieve VOCATIVO: ¡oh la nieve! ABLATIVO: con la nieve de la nieve en la nieve por la nieve sin la nieve sobre la nieve tras la nieve La luna tras la nieve Y estos pronombres personales extraviados por el río y esta conjugación tristísima perdida entre los árboles BUSTER KEATON

The given world dazzles with wonder, poetry, and purpose. The man-made world, on the other hand, is a perverse realm of ego and envy, where power-mad cynics make false idols of themselves and where the meek have no inheritance because they have gladly surrendered it to their idols in return not for lasting glory but for an occasional parade, not for bread but for the promise of bread.

Is this not pathetic, Odd, what some ill-educated fool has done? I take solace in reminding myself that 'art is long and critics are the insects of a day.'" "Shakespeare?" I asked. "No. Randall Jarrell. A wonderful poet, now all but forgotten because modern universities teach nothing but self-esteem and toe-sucking.

ON A DAY LATE THAT JANUARY, I READ AGAIN "EAST Coker" by the poet T. S. Eliot, and saw something that I had forgotten: the stark but beautiful metaphor by which he described God as a wounded surgeon whose bleeding hands apply a scalpel to his patients so that "Beneath the bleeding hands we feel / The sharp compassion of the healer's art.

Poetry is not efficient. If you want to learn how to cook a lobster, it's probably best not to look to poetry. But if you want to see the word lobster in all its reactant oddity, its pied beauty, as if for the first time, go to poetry. And if you want to know what it's like to be that lobster in the pot, that's in poetry too.

Poets are excellent students of blizzards and salt and broken statuary, but they are always elsewhere for the test. Any intention in the writing of poetry besides the aim to make a poem, of engaging the materials, SHOULD be disappointed. If the poet does not have the chutzpah to jeopardize habituated assumptions and practices, what will be produced will be sleep without dream, a copy of a copy of a copy.

For reality's glow and glory, without poetry, Fade, like the red operas of sunset

Its perorations verge upon the ceaseless orations of the ocean: For reality's glow and glory, without poetry, Fade, like the red operas of sunset, The blue rivers and windows of morning.

What stirs lyrical poets to their finest flights is neither the delight of the senses nor the fruitful contentment of the settled couple; not the satisfaction of love, but its passion. And passion means suffering.

In this twilight they were more imagined than seen, but I felt surrounded by the practitioners of a sacred mediocrity, an elegant mediocrity cloistering inaccessible tortures. I don't know quite how to put it. People, men, proud of their cliches yet full of helpless poetry.

Oh, well," Sands said, thinking that when passion stirred Major Eddie's heart, he tended to speak in a kind of poetry—you wouldn't do it justice to call it lying.

Poetry is important to people in a crisis, as love and intelligence are important. These are survival tools.

Why does no one in America recite poetry?" Aziz complains. "They go to the coffeehouse and they just drink the coffee.

Then let amourous kisses dwell On our lips, begin and tell A Thousand and a Hundred score A Hundred and a Thousand more

The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman. Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy

up to your ears in whores and poetesses in Paris." "Poetesses?" Jamie was beginning to sound amused. "What makes ye think women write poetry? Or that a woman who writes poetry would be wanton?" "Well, o' course they are. Everybody kens that. The words get into their heads and drive them mad, and they