#poet

I'm not really quiet or shy. Ask any of my friends! But I always ground my poetry in life itself. Poetry is an art of language, though, so I am always aware of every word's meaning, or multiple meanings. ↗

— Anne Stevenson

#am #any #art #ask #aware

But at the beginning it was clear to me that concrete poetry was peculiarly suited for using in public settings. This was my idea, but of course I never really much got the chance to do it. ↗

— Ian Hamilton Finlay

#chance #clear #concrete #course #got

But I can only write what the muse allows me to write. I cannot choose, I can only do what I am given, and I feel pleased when I feel close to concrete poetry - still. ↗

— Ian Hamilton Finlay

#am #cannot #choose #close #concrete

Well, probably I was fed up with concrete poetry. There was a lot of bad concrete poetry and besides, it was confused with visual poetry which was completely different. ↗

— Ian Hamilton Finlay

#besides #completely #concrete #confused #different

And the second question, can poetry be taught? I didn't think so. ↗

— Norman MacCaig

#poetry #question #second #taught #think

Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry. ↗

— Gustave Flaubert

#poetry #precise #thing

I began the way nearly everybody I ever heard of - I began writing poetry. And I find that to be quite usual with writers, their trying their hand at poetry. ↗

— Shelby Foote

#ever #everybody #find #hand #heard

At the round earth's imagined corners blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go ; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ; For, if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace, When we are there. Here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent, for that's as good As if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood. ↗

— John Donne

#poetry #religion #age

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it. ↗

— Oscar Wilde

#love #poetry #death

I fain would follow love, if that could be; I needs must follow death, who calls for me; Call and I follow, I follow! let me die. ↗

— Alfred Tennyson

#love #poetry #death