You are the hybrids of golden worlds and ages splendidly conceived.
AberjhaniTags: self-esteem humanity faith poets spirituality haiku diversity indigo-children national-poetry-month positive-motivation multiculturalism world-suicide-prevention-day teaching-diversity haikus angel-poems national-history-day modern-poets spiritual-philosophy multiculturalità poems-by-aberjhani hybrids intercultural international-poetry-day millennial-generation millennials modern-poetry
Le Poëte est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.
When he was in college, a famous poet made a useful distinction for him. He had drunk enough in the poet's company to be compelled to describe to him a poem he was thinking of. It would be a monologue of sorts, the self-contemplation of a student on a summer afternoon who is reading Euphues. The poem itself would be a subtle series of euphuisms, translating the heat, the day, the student's concerns, into symmetrical posies; translating even his contempt and boredom with that famously foolish book into a euphuism.
The poet nodded his big head in a sympathetic, rhythmic way as this was explained to him, then told him that there are two kinds of poems. There is the kind you write; there is the kind you talk about in bars. Both kinds have value and both are poems; but it's fatal to confuse them.
In the Seventh Saint, many years later, it had struck him that the difference between himself and Shakespeare wasn't talent - not especially - but nerve. The capacity not to be frightened by his largest and most potent conceptions, to simply (simply!) sit down and execute them. The dreadful lassitude he felt when something really large and multifarious came suddenly clear to him, something Lear-sized yet sonnet-precise. If only they didn't rush on him whole, all at once, massive and perfect, leaving him frightened and nerveless at the prospect of articulating them word by scene by page. He would try to believe they were of the kind told in bars, not the kind to be written, though there was no way to be sure of this except to attempt the writing; he would raise a finger (the novelist in the bar mirror raising the obverse finger) and push forward his change. Wailing like a neglected ghost, the vast notion would beat its wings into the void.
Sometimes it would pursue him for days and years as he fled desperately. Sometimes he would turn to face it, and do battle. Once, twice, he had been victorious, objectively at least. Out of an immense concatenation of feeling, thought, word, transcendent meaning had come his first novel, a slim, pageant of a book, tombstone for his slain conception. A publisher had taken it, gingerly; had slipped it quietly into the deep pool of spring releases, where it sank without a ripple, and where he supposes it lies still, its calm Bodoni gone long since green. A second, just as slim but more lurid, nightmarish even, about imaginary murders in an imaginary exotic locale, had been sold for a movie, though the movie had never been made. He felt guilt for the producer's failure (which perhaps the producer didn't feel), having known the book could not be filmed; he had made a large sum, enough to finance years of this kind of thing, on a book whose first printing was largely returned.
Tags: poetry writing writers inspiration creativity poem poets novel screenwriting conception
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الشمس
تشرق الشمس الذهبية كل يوم على التلة.
الأيكة جميلة، والحيوانات المتوحشة كذلك،
أيضا الرجل: صيادا كان أو مزارعا.
السمك الأحمر يقفز في البركة الخضراء.
تحت قبة السماء
صياد السمك يسافر برفق في زورقه الأزرق الصغير.
البذرة، عناقيد العنب، تنضج على مهل.
وعندما يصل اليوم الهادئ إلى نهايته،
تكون تهيئة كل من الخير والشر قد تمت.
وبحلول الليل،
دون أدنى شك يرفع المسافر جفنيه الثقيلين،
الشمس تهرب من الوديان الكئيبة.
. . . a racer snake / slicking off / like a signature into the weeds.
Tony CrunkTags: poets
A poem is a meteor.
Wallace StevensTags: poetry poem poets wallace-stevens
All things want to float.
Rainer Maria RilkeTags: poets poetry-quotes
Language is the mother, not the handmaiden, of thought; words will tell you things you never thought or felt before.
W.H. AudenTags: writing creativity poets quotes
A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.
AberjhaniTags: poetry inspiration language light metaphors poets blossoms poem-in-your-pocket-day gardens dawn national-poetry-month famous-quotes world-poetry-day literary-inspiration quotes-about-poets midnight savannah-authors-and-poets
Nor is there wanting in the press
Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in it nakedness,
Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth's unhonored things
Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the heart sings,
And a shout greets the daring one.
Tags: poetry poets quotes robert-frost life-quotes
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