Thinking of the stars night after night I begin to realize “The stars are words” and all the innumerable worlds in the Milky Way are words, and so is this world too. And I realize that no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of… Continue reading Jack Kerouac
We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter ― Allen Ginsberg, from “Howl: Section III,” Howl and Other Poems. (City Lights Publishers; Anniversary edition, January 1, 2001) Originally published 1956.
I wish I could build a fire In you that would never go out. — Kenneth Rexroth, from “Runaway,” The Complete Poems of Kenneth Rexroth, eds. Sam Hamill & Bradford Morrow (Copper Canyon Press, 2004)
Turn to me. Part your lips. My dear, some day we will be dead. — Kenneth Rexroth, from “Rosa Mundi,” Sacramental Acts: The Love Poems. (New Directions, January 17, 1966)
In winter night Massachusetts Street is dismal, the ground’s frozen cold, the ruts and pock holes have ice, thin snow slides over the jagged black cracks. The river is frozen to stolidity, waits; hung on a shore with remnant show-off boughs of June– Ice skaters, Swedes, Irish girls, yellers and singers–they throng on the white… Continue reading Jack Kerouac
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction the weight,the weight we carry is love. — Allen Ginsberg, from “Song,” Collected Poems 1947-1980. (Harper Perennial; Reprint edition June 7, 1988)
Loneliness is necessary for pure poetry. When someone intrudes into the poet’s life (and any sudden personal contact, whether in the bed or in the heart, is an intrusion) the poet loses his or her balance for a moment, slips into being what he or she is, uses his or her poetry as one would… Continue reading Jack Spicer