#poetry

The Garden En robe de parade. - Samain Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. She would like some one to speak to her, And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion. ↗

— Ezra Pound

#personae #poem #poetry #boredom

We like to admit to only that which already glows, although it is nobler to support brightness before it glows, not afterwards. ↗

— Dejan Stojanovic

#books #brightness #dejan-stojanovic #glow #literature

‎I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo's cry, 5-7-5, but now I want a russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring at your window. ↗

— Dean Young

#poetry #love

While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep. ↗

— Alexander Pope

#enlightenment #poetry #satire #satire

a politician is an arse upon which everyone has sat except a man ↗

— E.E. Cummings

#poems #poetry #politicians #politics #satire

You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine. ↗

— Billy Collins

#wine

Gather the stars if you wish it so Gather the songs and keep them. Gather the faces of women. Gather for keeping years and years. And then... Loosen your hands, let go and say good-bye. Let the stars and songs go. Let the faces and years go. Loosen your hands and say good-bye. ↗

— Carl Sandburg

#goodbye

Poetry is the language of the soul; Poetic Prose, the language of my heart. Each line must flow as in a song, and strike a chord that rings forever. To me, words are music! ↗

— Lori R. Lopez

#poetic-prose #poetry #song #writing-style #music

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror’s magic sights, For often thro’ the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; “I am half-sick of shadows,” said The Lady of Shalott. ↗

— Alfred Tennyson

#music

The element of craftsmanship in poetry is obscured by the fact that all men are taught to speak and most to read and write, while very few men are taught to draw or paint or write music. ↗

— W.H. Auden

#men