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Helen Bevington

The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to… Continue reading Helen Bevington

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Wallace Stevens

You can compose poetry in whatever form you like. If it seems a seventeenth-centruy habit to begin lines with capital letters, you can go in for the liquid transitions of greater simplicity; and so on. It is not that nobody cares. It matters immensely. The slightest sound matters. The most momentary rhythm matters. You can… Continue reading Wallace Stevens

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Martin Heidegger

Merely to say the same thing twice—language is language—how is that supposed to get us anywhere? But we do not want to get anywhere. We would like only, for once, to get just to where we are already. — Martin Heidegger, from “Language,” Poetry, Language, Thought. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Later Printing Used edition, December… Continue reading Martin Heidegger

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Charles Simi

I made a tiny hole in the wall with a long nail so that I could watch them screw. Image is what I saw; metaphor is when my tongue caught fire. If it’s the image I wish to employ it is because I want you to stand in my my shoes and make you see… Continue reading Charles Simi

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Rainer Maria Rilke

Works of art are of an infinite loneliness … nothing so little to be reached as with criticism. Only love can grasp and hold and be just toward them. — Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet. (Dover Publications May 8, 2002) Originally published 1929.

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