Quote

the rest of my days I spend wandering: wondering what, anyway, was that sticky infusion, that rank flavor of blood, that poetry, by which I lived?

Galway Kinnell

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Galway Kinnell
Age: 87 †
Born: 1927
Born: February 1
Died: 2014
Died: October 28
Poet
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Providence
Rhode Island
Galway Mills Kinnell
Poet
Sticky
Spend
Wandering
Poetry
Rank
Rest
Wondering
Blood
Flavor
Days
Wander
Wonder
Anyway
Lived
Infusion

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Kiss the mouth which tells you, here, here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.
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Thats the way it is with poetry: When it is incomprehensible it seems profound, and when you understand it, it is only ridiculous.
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I start off but I don't know where I'm going I try this avenue and that avenue, that turns out to be a dead end, this is a dead end, and so on. The search takes a long time and I have to back-track often.
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this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, this blessing love gives again into our arms.
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Let our scars fall in love.
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When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up, and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us. I think you think I will never die, I think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars, even as my broken arms heal themselves around you.
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I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.
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Go so deep into yourself, you speak for everyone.
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Turn on the dream you lived through the unwavering gaze. It is as you thought: the living burn. In the floating days may you discover grace.
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It is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on its brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing.
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Sometimes it is necessary To reteach a thing its loveliness
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The bud stands for all things, even for those things that don't flower
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Goodbye, you who are, for me, the postmarks again of shattered towns--Xenia, Burnt Cabins, Hornell-- their loneliness given away in poems, only their solitude kept.
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The first step in the journey is to lose your way.
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The first step... shall be to lose the way.
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There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version
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