For Emily Dickinson every philosophical idea was a potential lover. Metaphysics is the realm of eternal seduction of the spirit by ideas.
Charles SimicAnd now he is singing a bard's curse upon you, O brother abbot, and upon your father and your mother, and your grandfather and your grandmother, nd upon all your relations.'
Is he cursing in rhyme?'
He is cursing in rhyme, and with two assonances in every line of his curse.'
("The Crucifixion Of The Outcast")
One's-Self I Sing
One's-self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say
the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
Tags: poetry poet walt-whitman ones-self-i-sing
All of us,' he said, 'have hopes of being poet, artist, discoverer, philospoher, scientist; of possessing the attributes of all these simultaneously. Few are permitted to achieve any of them in daily life. But in travel we attain them all. Then we have our day of glory, when all our dreams come true, when we can be anything we like, as long as we like, and, when we are tired of it, pull up stakes and move on. Travel -- the solitude of the mountains, the emptiness of the desert, the delicacy of the minaret; eternal change, limitless contrast, unending variety.' (Eric Lang)
Robert Edison Fulton Jr.Tags: travel artist glory poet travels move-on traveling hopes scientist daily-life discovere eternal-change philopher what-we-want
There are many unspeakable words, forgotten, or forbidden.
Great thanks to the poets who make them all become reachable.
Tags: poet forgotten forbidden thanks reachable unspeakable
When Great Trees Fall
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
Tags: life poetry writing writers peace soul death poem poets trees souls poet poems american-writers maya-angelou i-shall-not-be-moved when-great-trees-fall
Maybe you could be mine / or maybe we’ll be entwined / aimless in this sexless foreplay.
Jess C. ScottTags: humor individuality wisdom imagination life truth honesty friendship love reality boys passion music poetry romance youth sex humour technology relationships self funny poem poets emotion culture poet novel body desire boy poems young cool poetry-life boyfriend
Time changes nothing, girl, but the size of your underwear. . .and hopefully your hairdo.
Minton SparksTags: humor poet philosophy-of-life storyteller
If I woke up one morning and realized that all I ever was going to be was a business man, I'd probably die. All my dreams would be shattered. Early in life I had many dreams. I dreamed of being a great basketball star. I dreamed of being a preacher. I dreamed of saving the world from war and racism. And I dreamed of being a great poet. Today, I dream only of writing.
Harley KingTags: goals writing dreams poet basketball-star hopes preacher business-man
And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth's noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night
Tags: poetry death night poem poet andrew-marvell
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