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I can hardly wait for tomorrow, it means a new life for me each and every day.

Stanley Kunitz

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Stanley Kunitz
Age: 100 †
Born: 1905
Born: July 29
Died: 2006
Died: May 14
Linguist
Poet
Translator
Writer
Worcester
Massachusetts
Stanley Jasspon Kunitz
Hardly
Wait
Tomorrow
Waiting
Means
Mean
Every
Life
Renewal

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End with an image and don't explain.
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Live in the layers, not on the litter.
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Some poems present themselves as cliffs that need to be climbed. Others are so defensive that when you approach their enclosure you half expect to be met by a snarling dog at the gate. Still others want to smother you with their sticky charms.
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The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.
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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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The heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking it is necessary to go through dark and deeper dark and not to turn
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Forward my mail to Mars.
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Poetry is ultimately mythology, the telling of stories of the soul. The old myths, the old gods, the old heroes have never died. They are only sleeping at the bottom of our minds, waiting for our call. We have need of them, for in their sum they epitomize the wisdom and experience of the race.
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How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?
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I dropped my hoe and ran into the house and started to write this poem, 'End of Summer.’ It began as a celebration of wild geese. Eventually the geese flew out of the poem, but I like to think they left behind the sound of their beating wings.
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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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I have walked through many lives, some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides, from which I struggle not to stray.
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A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.
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My mother never forgave my father
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A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of.
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I want to write poems that are natural, luminous, deep, spare. I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through and see the world.
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Not that you need to be a saint to have visions worth talking about. The most effective prescription, I suspect, is to be a disciplined sinner. Perfection, as Valery noted, is work.
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In my darkest night, when the moon was covered and I roamed through wreckage, a nimbus-clouded voice directed me: Live in the layers, not on the litter. Though I lack the art to decipher it, no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written. I am not done with my changes.
Stanley Kunitz