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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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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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