#poe

In trying to be perfect, He perfected the art of anonymity, Became imperceptible And arrived nowhere from nowhere. ↗

— Dejan Stojanovic

#art #dejan-stojanovic #imperceptibility #imperceptible #literature

In the past I have declined to comment on my own work: because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is; because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his work objectively. ↗

— James Schuyler

#apt #author #because #comment #consider

Never the less, at the age of fifteen, having never seen a writer, a poet, a publisher or a magazine editor, and having only the vaguest ideas of procedure, I began working on the profession I had chosen. ↗

— Robert E. Howard

#began #chosen #editor #fifteen #had

The artist (I suppose) usually pays for the privilege by some sort of partial insomnia, by the possession of one faculty that will not be controlled nor put to sleep. In a poet this must often be the visual imagination, bringing before his eyes a succession of images which he never summoned, and of which some (it is only too likely) will be ugly or pitiful. ↗

— Mary Lascelles

#poet #art

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. ↗

— Pablo Neruda

#poetry #love

In rap music, even though the element of poetry is very strong, so is the element of the drum, the implication of the dance. Without the beat, its commercial value would certainly be more tenuous. ↗

— Archie Shepp

#certainly #commercial #dance #drum #element

You see another who looks thirsty. Walking over to them, you nudge them on the back. They look at you, and you gesture toward the lake with your head. You and the other walk over there, and you are content and you are happy. You are home. ↗

— Amanda Leigh

#home

I love not man the less, but nature more ↗

— George Gordon Byron

#love

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket. ↗

— Charles Simic

#blanket #enough #into #needle #poem

If I am more alive because love burns and chars me, as a fire, given wood or wind, feels new elation, it's that he who lays me low is my salvation, and invigorates the more, the more he scars me. ↗

— Michelangelo Buonarroti

#poetry #love