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Forward my mail to Mars.

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
Mars
Mail
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More quotes by Stanley Kunitz

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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.
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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
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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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Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits they do not come to coo.
Stanley Kunitz
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It is my heart that's late, it is my song that's flown.
Stanley Kunitz
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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.
Stanley Kunitz
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Rhythm to me is essentially what Hopkins called the taste of self. I taste myself as rhythm.
Stanley Kunitz
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How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?
Stanley Kunitz
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I can hardly wait for tomorrow, it means a new life for me each and every day.
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My mother never forgave my father
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The supreme morality of art is to endure.
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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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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.
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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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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.
Stanley Kunitz
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I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.
Stanley Kunitz