#poe

That happens a lot with Shakespeare. The women go after what they want; the men wind up suckered into things. ↗

— Gayle Forman

#men #poet #relationships #rules #shakespeare-in-love

Poets are never unemployed, just unpaid. ↗

— Kathy Skaggs

#money #payment #poets #money

But neither money nor machines can create. They shuttle tokens of energy, but they do not transform. A civilization based on them puts people out of touch with their creative powers. ↗

— Lewis Hyde

#culture #machines #money #poetry #money

The war to preserve the privilege of mythmaking ↗

— Marvin Bell

#line #motivation #poetry #politics #prodigal

An old liar told me here To think ahead and save my money. I should have spent it on ribbons. I should have learned the tune my dead grandfather played When the daft wife heard him resounding In the deep pine woods in early November. ↗

— Menzies McKillop

#money #poetry #scottish #life

Contrasts The windows of my poetry are wide open on the boulevards and in the shop windows Shine The precious stones of light Listen to the violins of the limousines and the xylophones of the linotypes The sketcher washes with the hand-towel of the sky All is color spots And the hats of the women passing by are comets in the conflagration of the evening Unity There's no more unity All the clocks now read midnight after being set back ten minutes There's no more time. There's no more money. In the Chamber They are spoiling the marvelous elements of raw material ("Contrasts") ↗

— Blaise Cendrars

#clocks #color #colors #light #money

Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. ↗

— Robert Frost

#nature #poem #nature

CELL Now look objectively. You have to admit the cancer cell is beautiful. If it were a flower, you'd say, How pretty, with its mauve centre and pink petals of if a cover for a pulpy thirties sci-fi magazine. How striking: as an alien, a success, all purple eye and jelly tentacles and spines, or are they gills, creeping around on granular Martian dirt red as the inside of the body, while its tender walls expand and burst, its spores scatter elsewhere, take root, like money, drifting like a fiction or miasma in and out of people's brains, digging themselves industriously in. The lab technician says, It has forgotten how to die. But why remember? All it wants is more amnesia. More life, and more abundantly. to take more. to eat more. To replicate itself. To keep on doing those things forever. Such desires are not unknown. Look in the mirror. ↗

— Margaret Atwood

#poetry #beauty

You Don't Know What Love Is But you know how to raise it in me like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to wash off the sludge, the stench of our past. How to start clean. This love even sits up and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps. Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want to get into the fast car, one low to the ground, and drive to some cinderblock shithole in the desert where she can drink and get sick and then dance in nothing but her underwear. You know where she's headed, you know she'll wake up with an ache she can't locate and no money and a terrible thirst. So to hell with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt and your tongue down my throat like an oxygen tube. Cover me in black plastic. Let the mourners through. ↗

— Kim Addonizio

#poetry #food

No man was ever yet a great poet, without at the same time being a profound philosopher. ↗

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge

#poetry #philosophical