All the rest is silenceOn the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.
W.H. Auden
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.
poetry
If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.
equality relationships affection
The most exciting rhythms seem unexpected and complex, the most beautiful melodies simple and inevitable.
music
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.
Some thirty inches from my noseThe frontier of my Person goes, And all the untilled air betweenIs private pagus or demesne. Stranger, unless with bedroom eyesI beckon you to fraternize, Beware of rudely crossing it: I have no gun, but I can spit.
Showing 16 to 30 of 76 results
You must log in to post a comment.
There are no comments yet.