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 feel insignificant, lost, but exultant. — Virginia Woolf, The Waves. (Harvest Books 1978) Originally published October 8th 1931.
There are possibilities for me, certainly, but under what stone do they lie? — Franz Kafka, Diaries of Franz Kafka. (Schocken October 30, 1988) Originally published 1949.
You attract what you need like a lover. ― Gertrude Stein
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.
Beneath my eyes opens—a book; I see to the bottom; the heart—I see to the depths. I know what loves are trembling into fire; how jealousy shoots its green flashes hither and thither; how intricately love crosses love; love makes knots; love brutally tears them apart. I have been knotted; I have been torn apart.… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast… Continue reading James Joyce
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.
Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night. ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke, 1910-1926. (W. W. Norton & Company February 17, 1969)
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)