When I have worries, fears or a love affair, I have the luck of being able to transform it into a poem.
It's easy to understand why the most beautiful poems about England in the spring were written by poets living in Italy at the time.
My poems are political in the deeper sense of the word. Political means to live in your time, to be a man of your time.
I was actually a poetry major in college before I punted and decided to become a theater major. I wrote the poem that we put on the sauerkraut boxes in the style of Elling.
I've never read a political poem that's accomplished anything. Poetry makes things happen, but rarely what the poet wants.
Every now and then I read a poem that does touch something in me, but I never turn to poetry for solace or pleasure in the way that I throw myself into prose.
I think there is a poem out there for everyone, to be an entrance into the poetry and a relationship with it.
There must of course be a relationship between translating and making poems of your own, but what it is I just don't know.
A translation is no translation, he said, unless it will give you the music of a poem along with the words of it.
Arranging a bowl of flowers in the morning can give a sense of quiet in a crowded day - like writing a poem or saying a prayer.
My readers at that time were still men of letters; but there had to be other people waiting to read my poems.
I think my poems are slightly underrated by the word 'accessible.'
Technology is grey. More technology, less colors. We're building a world with colors only in poems.
I wrote you this poem because i was afraid/ To come out and tell you i want to get laid.
'Swan,' by Mary Oliver. Poems and prose. Reading from this book is as if visiting a very wise friend. There is wisdom and welcoming kindness on every page.
...I would not engage the wombat In any form of mortal combat.
And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days...
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know
Life is for the living. Death is for the dead. Let life be like music. And death a note unsaid.
I am too rich already, for my eyes mint gold. -
Happy the hare at morning, for she cannot read The hunter's waking thoughts.
