A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
Democritus plucked his eye out because he could not look at a woman without thinking of her as a woman. If he had read a few of our novels, he would have torn himself to pieces.
One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
The genuine artist is never "true to life." He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
Trees Trees, proud standing people stretching fingertips to the sky, reaching, praying glorious attention, breathing light. strength shelter timeless confidence bending and firm comforting rooted chorus line dancing with the moon, the wind, the clouds framing bursts of stars tender rugged celebration absorbing and releasing life each holy branch holding the power of the Universe. There.
Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedarlimbs.
A poet looks at the world as a man looks at a woman.
It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.
The poet is the priest of the invisible.
Money is a kind of poetry.
LIGHT FROM WITHIN my friend, cancer got you damn it you had it beat for seven years at least. how did it come back Why all that pain. again. and you, such a fighter you fought me over and over with tears and words and promises. you fought for me with honesty and a light so bright it hurts my heart. sweet lorna. at peace now finally no more battles, just light from within a flickering candle in the dark burns with you.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a s.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
After the final no there comes a yes and on that yes the future of the world hangs.
To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
The poem of the act of the mind.
Realism is a corruption of reality.
Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
Poetry is the supreme fiction, Madame.
Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.
The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
All of our ideas come from the natural world trees equal umbrellas.
It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
It crawls over the edges of the snow.
Union of the weakest develops strength; Not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge; One of the leaves that have fallen in autumn; But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
Aristotle is a skeleton.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
One reads poetry with one's nerves.
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
Poetry must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
Thought tends to collect in pools.
Like the Sweetness of Gardenias Mother, you died 15 years ago. pain, a rapier, cut until, finally, there was just peace like the sweetness of gardenias in the crystal vase on your yellow kitchen table. so fragrant. your voice lingers in my ear reminding, scolding, guiding a pleasant mantra of tenderness, magic words that move my palms, your palms. together we are molding, helping, creating. in the mirror I see your eyes, your beautiful brown circles looking back, so radiant. 'don't forget me,' you whispered the day you died. I won't.
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
Edward estlin cummings oh, my heart leaps born cambridge, MA 105 years ago harvard paris 900 poems... ingenuity. Arranging feelings words syllables punctuation on paper a celebration of magic love passion Godsky life OH joy of being alive sweetness thank You.
One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
A poem is a meteor.
We say God and the imagination are one.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories