Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being to which we rarely penetrate for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves. ― T.S. Eliot
I am weary with longing.I am faint with love;for upon my head the moonlighthas fallenas a sword. — Skipwith Cannéll, from “Nocturnes,” Poetry (August 1913).
All the while they were talking the new moralityHer eyes explored me.And when I rose to goHer fingers were like the tissueOf a Japanese paper napkin. — Ezra Pound, “The Encounter,” Selected Poems. (New Directions January 17, 1957) Originally published 1928.
I am moved by fancies that are curledAround these images, and cling:The notion of some infinitely gentleInfinitely suffering thing. — T.S. Eliot, from “Preludes,” Prufrock and Other Observations. (Forgotten Books September 27, 2015) Originally published 1917.
[)when what hugs stopping earth than silent is] )when what hugs stopping earth than silent is more silent than more than much more is or total sun oceaning than any this tear jumping from each most least eye of star and without was if minus and shall be immeasurable happenless unnow shuts more than open… Continue reading E.E. Cummings
You are tired, (I think) Of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I. — E.E. Cummings, from “[You are tired],” Etcetera: The Unpublished Poems of E.E. Cummings. (Liveright February 5, 2001)
As I would free the white almond from the green husk So would I strip your trappings off, Beloved. And fingering the smooth and polished kernel I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. — Amy Lowell, “Aubade,” Amy Lowell, Complete Poetical Works (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1955)
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens. — William Carlos Williams, “The Red Wheelbarrow,” Spring and All. First published in 1923 by Robert McAlmon’s Contact Publishing Co. The poem itself was originally published without a title and was designated as “XXII” as the twenty-second work in… Continue reading William Carlos Williams
(with her beauty more than snow dexterous and fugitive my very frail lady drifting distinctly, moving like a myth in the uncertain morning, with April feet like sudden flowers and all her body filled with May) — E.E. Cummings, from “Puella Mea,” The Dial, January 1921.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you… Continue reading T.S. Eliot