Maybe the world, without us, is the real poem.
To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.
So every day So every day I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth of the ideas of God, one of which was you.
To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work. Mary Olive
We do not love anything more deeply than we love a story...
When I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.
With words, I could build a world I could live in. I had a very dysfunctional family, and a very hard childhood. So I made a world out of words. And it was my salvation.
Poetry is one of the ancient arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth. Also, it began through the process of seeing, and feeling, and hearing, and smelling, and touching, and then remembering--I mean remembering in words--what these perceptual experie
And now my old dog is dead, and another I had after him, and my parents are dead, and that first world, that old house, is sold and lost, and the books I gathered there lost, or sold- but more books bought, and in another place, board by board and stone by stone, like a house, a true life built, and
When will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included.
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood. How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs. How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity while we ourselves dream of rising.
And there you are on the shore, fitful and thoughtful, trying to attach them to an idea â€” some news of your own life. But the lilies are slippery and wildâ€”they are devoid of meaning, they are simply doing, from the deepest spurs of their being, what they are impelled to do every summer. And so,
My first two books are out of print and, okay, they can sleep there comfortably. It's early work, derivative work.
Love, love, love, says Percy. And hurry as fast as you can along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust. Then, go to sleep. Give up your body heat, your beating heart. Then, trust.
All my lifeI have been restless--I have felt there is somethingmore wonderful than gloss--than wholeness--than staying at home.
And now you'll be telling stories of my coming back and they won't be false, and they won't be true but they'll be real
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.
I simply do not distinguish between work and play.
And it is exceedingly short, his galloping life. Dogs die so soon. I have my stories of that grief, no doubt many of you do also. It is almost a failure of will, a failure of love, to let them grow old-or so it feels. We would do anything to keep them with us, and to keep them young. The one gift we
There are things you canâ€™t reach. But You can reach out to them, and all day long. The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of god. And it can keep you busy as anything else, and happier. I look; morning to night I am never done with looking. Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing a
Can one be passionate about the just, the ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit no labor in its cause? I don't think so. All summations have a beginning, all effect has a story, all kindness beings with the sown seed. Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of light is the crossroads of
Poetry is a river; many voices travel in it; poem after poem moves along in the exciting crests and falls of the river waves. None is timeless; each arrives in an historical context; almost everything, in the end, passes. But the desire to make a poem, and the world's willingness to receive it--inde
The poet must not only write the poem but must scrutinize the world intensely, or anyway that part of the world he or she has taken for subject. If the poem is thin, it is likely so not because the poet does not know enough words, but because he or she has not stood long enough among the flowers--ha
When death comesâ€¦. I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what itâ€™s going to be like, that cottage of darkness? And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibil
When When itâ€™s over, itâ€™s over, and we donâ€™t know any of us, what happens then. So I try not to miss anything. I think, in my whole life, I have never missed The full moon or the slipper of its coming back. Or, a kiss. Well, yes, especially a kiss.
Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.
I have a little dog who likes to nap with me. He climbs on my body and puts his face in my neck. He is sweeter than soap. He is more wonderful than a diamond necklace, which can't even bark...
There is nothing better than work. Work is also play; children know that. Children play earnestly as if it were work. But people grow up, and they work with a sorrow upon them. It's duty.
Though I play at the edges of knowing, truly I know our part is not knowing, but looking, and touching, and loving
Today again I am hardly myself. It happens over and over.