The first inkling of this notion had come to him the Christmas before, at his daughter's place in Vermont. On Christmas Eve, as indifferent evening took hold in the blue squares of the windows, he sat alone in the crepuscular kitchen, imbued with a profound sense of the identity of winter and twilight, of twilight and time, of time and memory, of his childhood and that church which on this night waited to celebrate the second greatest of its feasts. For a moment or an hour as he sat, become one with the blue of the snow and the silence, a congruity of star, cradle, winter, sacrament, self, it was as though he listened to a voice that had long been trying to catch his attention, to tell him, Yes, this was the subject long withheld from him, which he now knew, and must eventually act on.
He had managed, though, to avoid it. He only brought it out now to please his editor, at the same time aware that it wasn't what she had in mind at all. But he couldn't do better; he had really only the one subject, if subject was the word for it, this idea of a notion or a holy thing growing clear in the stream of time, being made manifest in unexpected ways to an assortment of people: the revelation itself wasn't important, it could be anything, almost. Beyond that he had only one interest, the seasons, which he could describe endlessly and with all the passion of a country-bred boy grown old in the city. He was beginning to doubt (he said) whether these were sufficient to make any more novels out of, though he knew that writers of genius had made great ones out of less. He supposed really (he didn't say) that he wasn't a novelist at all, but a failed poet, like a failed priest, one who had perceived that in fact he had no vocation, had renounced his vows, and yet had found nothing at all else in the world worth doing when measured by the calling he didn't have, and went on through life fatally attracted to whatever of the sacerdotal he could find or invent in whatever occupation he fell into, plumbing or psychiatry or tending bar. ("Novelty")
Tags: poetry writing writers creativity poet novel
قلبي في المساء
عندما يأتي المساء تسمع صيحات الخفافيش.
حصانان أسودان مقيدان في المرعى،
القيقب الأحمر يحدث حفيفاً،
الشخص الذي يمشي على طول الطريق يرى أمامه حانة
صغيرة.
البندق والخمر الجديدة لهما طعم لذيذ،
لذيذ: ترنح السكران في الغابة الداجية.
أجراس القرية، مؤلم سماعها، يتردد صداها عبر أغصان
التنوب السوداء،
ندىً يتشكل على الوجه
it was dawning on me how uphill a poet's path was, and I confessed to her that if I had to be the choice between being happy or being a poet, I'd choose to be happy.
Mary KarrTags: happiness poet writing-life
If your not annoying somebody, you're not alive.
Margaret AtwoodI will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.
We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”
-In the yellow time of pollen
Tags: poetry poem poet poetry-quotes
Because there are hundreds of different ways to say one thing, I, being a writer, songwriter, and poet, speak childishly and incoherently. In speech there is so much to decide in so little time.
Criss JamiTags: words writing speech expression artist conversation poet writer shy songwriting introvert incoherence coherence
When a poet digs himself into a hole, he doesn't climb out. He digs deeper, enjoys the scenery, and comes out the other side enlightened.
Criss JamiTags: pain learning writing deep-thoughts artists poet strength-through-adversity enjoyment digging scenery metaphorical unstoppable
If I knew what to do
I'd do more than write a song for you
Tags: art love poetry writing lyrics uncertainty poet songs confusion musician songwriting rhyme
Poetry is the whispering of a truth by the shouting of the best possible lies
Oscar SparrowTags: poetry poet poetry-of-life
That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face - that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.
G.K. Chesterton« first previous
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