All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris- no wild yearning for the unattainable. Harris never “weeps, he knows not why.” If Harris’s eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say:”Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the waving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses held by seaweed?” Harris would take you by the arm, and say:”I know what it is, old man; you’ve got a chill. Now you come along with me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a drop of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted- put you right in less than no time.”Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can get something brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you met Harris up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he would immediately greet you with:”So glad you’ve come, old fellow; I’ve found a nice place round the corner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar.”

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.”

“It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends”

“I wanted the past to go away, I wantedto leave it, like another country; I wantedmy life to close, and openlike a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the songwhere it fallsdown over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;I wantedto hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,whoever I was, I wasalivefor a little while.”

“Sometimes I think,I need a spare heart to feel all the things I feel.”

“I like the posture, but not the yoga. I like the inebriated morning, but not the opium. I like the flower but not the garden, the moment but not the dream. Quiet, my love. Be still. I am sleeping.”

“The poet doesn’t invent. He listens. ”

“I want my own will, and I wantsimply to be with my will,as it goes toward action.And in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times,when something is coming near,I want to be with those who knowsecret things or else alone…I want to unfold.I don’t want to be folded anywhere,because where I am folded,there I am a lie.”

“Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,But yet the body is his book.”

“The inmost spirit of poetry, in other words, is at bottom, in every recorded case, the voice of pain – and the physical body, so to speak, of poetry, is the treatment by which the poet tries to reconcile that pain with the world.”

“You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket.”

“My silence knot is tied up in my hair; as if to keep my love out of my eyes. I cannot speak to one for whom i care. A hatpin serves as part of my disguise. In the play, my role is baticeer; a word which here means “person who trains bats.” The audience may feel a prick of fear, as if sharp pins are hidden in thier hats. My co-star lives on what we call a brae. His solitude might not be just an act. A piece of mail fails to arrive one day. This poignant melodrama’s based on fact.The curtain falls just as the knot unties; the silence is broken by the one who dies.”

“أما العمل الأخطر فهو أن تحضر مهرجانًا شعريًّا يؤمّه هذا الطّراز من الشّعراء، عامّة هناك نوعان من الشّعر حاليًّا… شعر (أتدحرج عبر الطّرقات الشّتويّة… تختفي أزمنة اللّاجدوى…) […] النّوع الثّاني من الشّعر السّائد حاليًّا هو (مات الّذي قد كان نبراسًا… من بعده ساد الأسى النّاسا)… سوف تسمع الكثير جدًّا من هذا الكلام حتّى ينفجر رأسك، ثمّ يظهر ناقد يمطّ شفته السّفلى في قرف ويتكلّم عن: “البنية الإبداعيّة الكوزموبوليتانيّة في إرهاصات ما بعد الحداثة. هذه هي الممارسة المنهجيّة القوليّة الّقديّة تشكف عن نفسها داخل الطّرح البنيويّ”.”

“Good Bones”Life is short, though I keep this from my children.Life is short, and I’ve shortened minein a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,a thousand deliciously ill-advised waysI’ll keep from my children. The world is at leastfifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservativeestimate, though I keep this from my children.For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,sunk in a lake. Life is short and the worldis at least half terrible, and for every kindstranger, there is one who would break you,though I keep this from my children. I am tryingto sell them the world. Any decent realtor,walking you through a real shithole, chirps onabout good bones: This place could be beautiful,right? You could make this place beautiful.”

“One! two! and through and throughThe vorpal blade went snickersnack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.”