Stanley Kunitz

…few young poets [are] testing their poems against the ear. They’re writing for the page, and the page, let me tell you, is a cold bed.

…few young poets [are] testing their poems against the ear. They’re writing for the page, and the page, let me tell you, is a cold bed.

– Stanley Kunitz –

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T.S. Eliot

April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.Summer surprised us, coming over the StarnbergerseeWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened. He said, Marie,Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.In the mountains, there you feel free.I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

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