#poe

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. ↗

— Sylvia Plath

#depression #poetry #sadness #suicide #art

An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress ↗

— W.B. Yeats

#death #poetry #age

Spring, spring! Bytuene Mershe ant Averil, when spray biginneth to spring! When shaws be sheene and swards full fayre, and leaves both large and longe! When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces, in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when the birds do sing, hey-ding-a-ding ding, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-wee, ta-witta-woo! And so on and so on and so on. See almost any poet between the Bronze Age and 1805. ↗

— George Orwell

#poetry #spring #age

I want to write a poem about "Truth," "Honor," "Dignity," and whether the toilet paper should roll over or under when you pull on it. ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#honor #life #poem #toilet-paper #truth

Nexus I wrote stubbornly into the evening. At the window, a giant praying mantis rubbed his monkey wrench head against the glass, begging vacantly with pale eyes; and the commas leapt at me like worms or miniature scythes blackened with age. the praying mantis screeched louder, his ragged jaws opening into formlessness. I walked outside; the grass hissed at my heels. Up ahead in the lapping darkness he wobbled, magnified and absurdly green, a brontosaurus, a poet. ↗

— Rita Dove

#age

An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, ↗

— W.B. Yeats

#poem #poet #yeats #age

I think poor poetry writing skills are excused when you’re simply trying to flush out emotions. ↗

— Katie Kiesler

#poetry #writing #age

The first time I saw hundreds of fiddlehead ferns boiling in an enormous pot I realized what an odd person I must be to hear tiny cries from the mouths of cooking vegetables. ↗

— Maureen Seaton

#vegetables #age

Time moved for you not in quotidian beats, but in the slow rhythm the ages keep – ↗

— Aldous Huxley

#villiers-de-l-isle-adam #age

I once saw a small child go to an electric light switch as say, "Mamma, can I open the light?" She was using the age-old language of exploration, the language of art. It was a sort of metaphor, but she was not using it as ornamentation. ↗

— Ezra Pound

#language #poetry #age