#poe

Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private. ↗

— Allen Ginsberg

#human mind #known #mind #original #outlet

The campus, an academy of trees, under which some hand, the wind's I guess, had scattered the pale light of thousands of spring beauties, petals stained with pink veins; secret, blooming for themselves. We sat among them. Your long fingers, thin body, and long bones of improbable genius; some scattered gene as Kafka must have had. Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles. That simple that was myself, half conscious, as though each moment was a page where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type struck against the moving ribbon. The light air, the restless leaves; the ripple of time warped by our longing. There, as if we were painted by some unknown impressionist. ↗

— Ruth Stone

#nostalgia #poetry #beauty

It almost felt like we were driving in our own world--like we were inside a snow globe--and there was music and sunlight and smiles and laughter floating in the air. And it was all self-contained in a beautiful bubble filled with glittering water that made things seem a little unreal, a little dream-like and hazy. ↗

— Melissa C. Walker

#dreamy #infinite #poetic #beauty

The pure playfulness of certain wholly whimsical portions of (Charles) Cros’s work should not obscure the fact that at the center of some of his most beautiful poems a revolver is leveled straight at us. ↗

— André Breton

#poets #beauty

They mutilate they torment each other with silences with words as if they had another life to live they do so as if they had forgotten that their bodies are inclined to death that the insides of men easily break down ruthless with each other they are weaker than plants and animals they can be killed by a word by a smile by a look ↗

— Tadeusz Różewicz

#death

There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing. ↗

— John Cage

#nothing #possess #realize #soon

A Parting Guest What delightful hosts are they— Life and Love! Lingeringly I turn away, This late hour, yet glad enough They have not withheld from me Their high hospitality. So, with face lit with delight And all gratitude, I stay Yet to press their hands and say, Thanks.—So fine a time! Good night. ↗

— James Whitcomb Riley

#funeral #poetry #death

If a poet knows more about a horse than he does about heaven, he might better stick to the horse, and some day the horse may carry him into heaven. ↗

— Charles Ives

#better #carry #day #does #heaven

It's been such a deep and amazing journey for me, getting close to John Keats, and also I love Shelley and Byron. I mean, the thing about the Romantic poets is that they've got the epitaph of romantic posthumously. They all died really young, and Keats, the youngest of them all. ↗

— Jane Campion

#also #amazing #been #byron #close

Robots are like Mars: they need girls. Boys won't do; the memesoup is all wrong. They stomp when they should kiss and they're none too keen on having things shoved inside them... It's not a robot until you put a girl inside. Sometimes I feel like that. A junkyard the Company forgot to put a girl in. ↗

— Catherynne M. Valente

#girls #industry #life #poetry #relationships