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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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In every house of marriage there's room for an interpreter.
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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
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End with an image and don't explain.
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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
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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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...few young poets [are] testing their poems against the ear. They're writing for the page, and the page, let me tell you, is a cold bed.
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I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.
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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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We have all been expelled from the Garden, but the ones who suffer most in exile are those who are still permitted to dream of perfection.
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A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of.
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Rhythm to me is essentially what Hopkins called the taste of self. I taste myself as rhythm.
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The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
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The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.
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My mother never forgave my father
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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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Live in the layers, not on the litter.
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To conquer a piece of earth and make it as beautiful as one can dream of it being: That is art, too. A man cannot be separated from the earth. I come out of the garden every day feeling, oh, inspired in a way that one needs in order to convert the daily-ness of the life into something greater than that little life itself.
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Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
Stanley Kunitz