#poetry

L'art Green arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth, Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes. ↗

— Ezra Pound

#art

Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings. ↗

— W.H. Auden

#feeling

Live not for Battles Won. Live not for The-End-of-the-Song. Live in the along. ↗

— Gwendolyn Brooks

#living #poetry #end

Only the very weak-minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#literature #philosphy #poetry #reading #read

I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake. ↗

— Walt Whitman

#mistakes

A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a lovesickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. ↗

— Robert Frost

#writing #effort

She Was A Phantom of Delight She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament: Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death: The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. ↗

— William Wordsworth

#women #death

How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity. ↗

— Emily Dickinson

#poems #poetry #career

The longer I live the more I mistrust theatricality, the false glamour cast by performance, the more I know its poverty beside the truths we are salvaging from the splitting-open of our lives. -from "Transcendental Etude ↗

— Adrienne Rich

#dreams

The poet will only be recited until the death of his language. The violinist will only give recitals until the bowing of nose hairs. ↗

— Bauvard

#greatness #humor #music #noses #poetry