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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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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
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Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
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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The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.
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A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of.
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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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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.
Stanley Kunitz
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Live in the layers, not on the litter.
Stanley Kunitz
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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
Stanley Kunitz
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A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.
Stanley Kunitz
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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
Stanley Kunitz
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Poetry today is easier to write but harder to remember.
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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The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
Stanley Kunitz
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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.
Stanley Kunitz
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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.
Stanley Kunitz
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End with an image and don't explain.
Stanley Kunitz
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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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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