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Tag: poetry, writing

I,” I’ll type. And that will be enough.Then there are the other days, when nothing is enough. The poem grins. It grins because it knows it is a terrible poem. It grins in embarrassment. It grins in pity. It grins in superiority. I may be a terrible poem, it grins, but at least I have one comfort. At least I’m not a terrible poet. At least I’m not the guy who sat in front of a typewriter for two hours coming up with the likes of me.

poetry, writing

When you’re a student of poetry, you’re lucky if you don’t realize how untalented you are until you get a little better. Otherwise, you would just stop.

poetry, writing

Every time your work is read, you die several deaths for every word, and poetry is like being flayed alive.

poetry, writing

The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.See how the roof glitters, like ice!Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.

poetry, writing

Everything has its poetry. 94

poetry, writing

When words lose their meaning, physical force takes over.

poetry, writing

Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.

poetry, writing

. . . chasing after words like trying to grab the tails of comets.

poetry, writing

All a poet can do today is warn.

poetry, writing

I rhymeTo see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

poetry, writing

My Muse sits forlornShe wishes she had not been bornShe sits in the coldNo word she says is ever told.

poetry, writing

A poem is never a put-up job, so to speak. It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is never a thought to begin with.

poetry, writing