#poet

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

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

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit. ↗

— William Shakespeare

#plays #poetry #viola #wise #art

Poets, we know, are terribly sensitive people, and in my observation one of the things they are most sensitive about is money. ↗

— Robert Penn Warren

#know #money #most #observation #people

The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it. ↗

— Robert Penn Warren

#becomes #enough #having #itch #like

There are no poetic ideas; only poetic utterances. ↗

— Evelyn Waugh

#only #poetic #utterances

There is something perfect to be found in the imperfect: the law keeps balance through the juxtaposition of beauty, which gains perfection through nurtured imperfection. ↗

— Dejan Stojanovic

#beauty #dejan-stojanovic #imperfect #imperfection #juxtaposition

Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it ↗

— Sylvia Plath

#poetry #love

Outside the study hall the next fall, the fall of our senior year, the Nabisco plant baked sweet white bread twice a week. If I sharpened a pencil at the back of the room I could smell the baking bread and the cedar shavings from the pencil.... Pretty soon all twenty of us - our class - would be leaving. A core of my classmates had been together since kindergarten. I'd been there eight years. We twenty knew by bored heart the very weave of each other's socks.... The poems I loved were in French, or translated from the Chinese, Portuguese, Arabic, Sanskrit, Greek. I murmured their heartbreaking sylllables. I knew almost nothing of the diverse and energetic city I lived in. The poems whispered in my ear the password phrase, and I memorized it behind enemy lines: There is a world. There is another world. I knew already that I would go to Hollins College in Virginia; our headmistress sent all her problems there, to her alma mater. "For the English department," she told me.... But, "To smooth off her rough edges," she had told my parents. They repeated the phrase to me, vividly. I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world's surface, and exit through it. Would I be ground, instead, to a nub? Would they send me home, an ornament to my breed, in a jewelry bag? ↗

— Annie Dillard

#awakening #college #poetry #home