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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.

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
Flying
Dreams
Full
Brain
Child
Deftly
Dream
Aviation
Children
Opened
Flight

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Forward my mail to Mars.
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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
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Live in the layers, not on the litter.
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Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
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A poet needs to keep his wilderness alive inside him. To remain a poet after forty requires an awareness of your darkest Africa, that part of yourself that will never be tamed.
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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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An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.
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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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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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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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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
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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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A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.
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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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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 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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The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
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We have to learn how to live with our frailties. The best people I know are inadequate and unashamed.
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My mother never forgave my father
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