#poetry

Sleeping Wrestler You are a murderer No you are not, but really a wrestler Either way it's just the same For from the ring of your entangled body Clean as leather, lustful as a lily Will nail me down On your stout neck like a column, like a pillar of tendons The thoughtful forehead (In fact, it's thinking nothing) When the forehead slowly moves and closes the heavy eyelids Inside, a dark forest awakens A forest of red parrots Seven almonds and grape leaves At the end of the forest a vine Covers the house where two boys Lie in each others arms: I'm one of them, you the other In the house, melancholy and terrible anxiety Outside the keyhole, a sunset Dyed with the blood of the beautiful bullfighter Escamillo Scorched by the sunset, headlong, headfirst Falling, falling, a gymnast If you're going to open your eyes, nows the time, wrestler ↗

— Mutsuo Takahashi

#beauty

Glasses frame the beauty of a lady's eyes. ↗

— Jimmie A. Kepler

#poetry #poetry-of-life #beauty

Voll Blüten steht der Pfirsichbaum nicht jede wächst zur Frucht sie schimmern hell wie Rosenschaum durch Blau und Wolkenflucht. Wie Blüten geh'n Gedanken auf hundert an jedem Tag -- lass' blühen, lass' dem Ding den Lauf frag' nicht nach dem Ertrag! Es muss auch Spiel und Unschuld sein und Blütenüberfluss sonst wär' die Welt uns viel zu klein und Leben kein Genuss. ↗

— Hermann Hesse

#beauty #blossoms #enjoyment #growth #ideas

The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty. ↗

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

#beauty

Friend who has fired the kingfishers and flamed the dragonflies – they catch your light however they move and beam it out of their eyes. ↗

— Bryana Johnson

#christ #free-verse #gerard-manley-hopkins #poetry #the-image

When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude ↗

— William Wordsworth

#solitude #business

Poetry is nobody’s business except the poet’s, and everybody else can fuck off. ↗

— Philip Larkin

#business

It was language I loved, not meaning. I liked poetry better when I wasn't sure what it meant. Eliot has said that the meaning of the poem is provided to keep the mind busy while the poem gets on with its work -- like the bone thrown to the dog by the robber so he can get on with his work. . . . Is beauty a reminder of something we once knew, with poetry one of its vehicles? Does it give us a brief vision of that 'rarely glimpsed bright face behind/ the apparency of things'? Here, I suppose, we ought to try the impossible task of defining poetry. No one definition will do. But I must admit to a liking for the words of Thomas Fuller, who said: 'Poetry is a dangerous honey. I advise thee only to taste it with the Tip of thy finger and not to live upon it. If thou do'st, it will disorder thy Head and give thee dangerous Vertigos. ↗

— P.K. Page

#language #poetry #words #beauty

THOUGH you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise, Be not unkind or proud, But think about old friends the most: Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes. ↗

— W.B. Yeats

#beauty

I do strongly feel that among the greatest pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business: Beethoven's deafness, Goya's deafness, Milton's blindness, that kind of thing. ↗

— John Berryman

#artists #beethoven #goya #literature #luck