All the rest is silenceOn the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.
W.H. Auden
For poetry makes nothing happen.
poetry
Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings.
poetry expression feelings
Funeral BluesStop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeropanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good.
poetry silence death rest thought sky good wrong song stars moon sun black dog south public dead talk forever working ocean white message woods funeral clocks love west traffic
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time.
O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start; You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.
Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
poetry hurt ireland
O stand, stand at the windowAs the tears scald and start; You shall love your crooked neighbor with all your crooked heart.
Poetry makes nothing happen.
poetry poets
poetry silence
Clear, unscaleable ahead, Rise the mountains of insteadFrom whose cold, cascading streamsNone may drink except in dreams
poetry dreams
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
The Ogre does what ogres can, Deeds quite impossible for Man, But one prize is beyond his reach: The Ogre cannot master speech. About a subjugated plain, Among it's desperate and slain, The Ogre stalks with hands on hips, While drivel gushes from his lips.
No poet can know what his poem is going to be like until he has written it.
When words lose their meaning, physical force takes over.
poetry writing
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.
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