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
It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur. ― Wallace Stevens, Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose. (intage; Revised edition, February 19, 1990) Originally published 1957.
God let me see the future so I would never dwell on the past. — J. Kiss, from “The Soothsayer,” Literary Bohemian (no. 4, April 2009)
Oh we’re a mess, poor humans, poor flesh—hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them We’ve been to the moon and we’re still fighting over Jerusalem. Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. — Richard Siken, from… Continue reading Richard Siken
My heart is a cathedral. Widows, ghosts and lovers sit and sing in the dark, arched marrow of me. ― Segovia Amil, Ophelia Wears Black. (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform; 1 edition, December 11, 2015)
“We say release, and radiance, and roses,” We say release, and radiance, and roses, and echo upon everything that’s known; and yet, behind the world our names enclose is the nameless: our true archetype and home. The sun seems male, and earth is like a woman, the field is humble, and the forest proud; but… Continue reading Rainer Maria Rilke
It will illustrate one phase of humanity anyhow; how few of life’s days and hours (and they not by relative value or proportion, but by chance) are ever noted. Probably another point too, how we give long preparations for some object, planning and delving and fashioning, and then, when the actual hour for doing arrives,… Continue reading Walt Whitman