What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
Now I am here – now read me – give me a name.
An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, "Come and find me, come and find me."
Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say, ‘Listen!’ and ‘Did you see it?’ ‘Did you hear it? What was it?’
Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables.
Let your heart look on white sea spray and be lonely. Love is a fool star. You and a ring of stars may mention my name and then forget me. Love is a fool star.
Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.
I make it clear why I write as I do and why other poets write as they do. After hundreds of experiments I decided to go my own way in style and see what would happen.
I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.
Somebody’s little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.
Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation’s freight handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.
Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split the boulder.
It is the business of little minds to shrink.
Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
It was here we turned the coffee cups upside down. And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.
When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
I been a wanderin'<br>Early and late,<br>New York City<br>To the Golden Gate<br>An’ it looks like<br>I’m never gonna cease my<br>Wanderin’.
The simple dignity of a child drinking a bowl of milk embodies the fascination of an ancient rite.
People lie because they don’t remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can’t help making a story better than it was the way it happened.
All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
a women is like a tea bag.it’s only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.
Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
Come clean with a child heart Laugh as peaches in the summer wind Let rain on a house roof be a song Let the writing on your face be a smell of apple orchards on late June.
Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.
Tell no man anything, for no man listens Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.
It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness; to sit on a rock in the forest and to ask of himself, ‘Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?’…If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one’s time-the stuff of life
Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
Time is a great teacher,<br>Who can live without hope?