…you are enchanted – only a princess can leave glass footprints in the snow…

Into the day as by dream I swim To the music of nourished meaning.

I’m like the weather, never really can predict when this rain cloud’s gonna burst; when it’s the high or it’s the low, when you might need a light jacket.Sometimes I’m the slush that sticks to...

My mathematics is simple: one plus one = one.

I saw the spiders marching through the air,Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed dayIn latter August when the hayCame creaking to the barn. But whereThe wind is westerly,Where gnarled November makes the spiders flyInto...

You are hurrying to the sweet place, To the nonsense chasing your spirit And in the nonsense you look for answers.

There is an old Latin quotation in regard to the poet which says ‘Poeta nascitur non fit’ the translation of which is— the poet is born, not made.

A star needs a star.

It was never about the world being too big, it was more like she was too much for the world to handle.

Trying too hard to be too good, even when trying to be bad, is too good for the bad, too bad for the good.

Broken hearts, you can run, you can hide and perhaps the earth is big enough to believe you’re safe. So maybe for a moment you have escaped but hear me, hear me well. Love will...

The History TeacherTrying to protect his students’ innocencehe told them the Ice Age was really justthe Chilly Age, a period of a million yearswhen everyone had to wear sweaters.And the Stone Age became the Gravel...

Most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour.

We measure everything by ourselves with almost a necessary conceit.

I do not know how it is elsewhere, but here, in this country, poetry is a healing, life-giving thing, and people have not lost the gift of being able to drink of its inner strength....

Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,Are a substantial world, both pure and good:Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

It’s not what you go through that makes you strong: it is how you handle the situation that gives you strength.

Eternity is a glorious word, but eternity is ice.

The Song of Wandering AengusI went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white...

A little bunny or some kind of ferret was probablythere too, and bore witness as only rodents can.

Stay away from the underground lake I implore,The Siren will see you are heard of no more.

He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, Clearly used to silence and an armchair: Tonight the wife and children will be quiet At slammed door and smoker’s cough in the hall.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939I sit in one of the divesOn Fifty-second StreetUncertain and afraidAs the clever hopes expireOf a low dishonest decade:Waves of anger and fearCirculate over the brightAnd darkened lands of the earth,Obsessing our private...

Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it,For that your self ye daily such doe see:But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me.For all the...

Did I live the spring I’d sought?It’s true in joy, I walked along,took part in dance, and sang the song.and never tried to bind an hourto my borrowed garden bower;nor did I once entreata day...

Liebe Tochter, zum Geburtstag kriegst duHöchstens E-Mail mit Musik.An die harte Matratze schmiegst dudeine Wange. Kunst ist Krieg.

I took her to bed with silk and song’Lay still, my love, I won’t be long,I must prepare my body for passion.”O, your body you give, but all else you ration…

Plato utterly condemns the poets for publishing trivial, false and indeed wicked stories about the gods, such as that they fight with each other, or are overcome by emotions like grief, anger, mirth. Reluctantly, he...

REFLECTIONS OF A MIRRORBeautiful is he who recognizes what is truly beautiful,Even if the surface is ugly.Truthful is he who says what is true,Even if the truth is ugly.Ugly is he who measures beauty by...

He is a type of our best — our rarest. Electrical, I was going to say, beyond anyone, perhaps, ever was: charged, surcharged. Not a founder of new philosophies — not of that build. But...

It’s better to have loved and lost than never love at all – I doubt that sorry statement every time I fall.

If you had told me, though, when I was twenty-four that I would write about Skokie, Illinois, where I grew up, I would have said, ‘You’re out of your mind. Why would I have Skokie...

After the leaves have fallen, we returnTo a plain sense of things. It is as ifWe had come to an end of the imagination,Inanimate in an inert savoir.

My favorite place in the world is next to you.

Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were behind you, like the winter that has just gone by. For among these winters there is one so endlessly winterthat only by wintering through it...

It could be yesterdaywhen I was less in loveI thinkFor I didn’t see you in the mirrorbehind mewhile getting dressed.The way your hands couldn’t stay awayand our bodies always found their ways back to each...

Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed.

This is no occupation for an adult who can look other adults in the eye, carry his own weight, and count himself one of them.

Hinged to forgetfulnesslike a door,she slowly closed out ofsight,and she was the woman I loved,but too many times she slept likea mechanical deer in my caresses,and I ached in the metal silenceof her dreams.

A poem is a frozen momentmelted by each reader for themselvesto flow into the here and now.

What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

The poet must be more useful than any other member if his tribe.

I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped...

Poetry should be like ‘Uh-huh. Baby has to have it.

There are things we do that the human mind doesn’t understand, yet the same things are meant for the heart to fully comprehend.

A poem for Beth: Roses are red, Violets are blue, I didn’t know what love meant, until I looked it up in the dictionary.

To the Virgins, To Make much of TimeGather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today,Tomorrow will be dying.The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,The higher he’s a-getting,The...

Take’th my temple and cut it into little stars, placed carefully to the face of heaven and the world will shine.