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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
Dreams
Full
Brain
Child
Deftly
Dream
Aviation
Children
Opened
Flight
Flying

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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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In every house of marriage there's room for an interpreter.
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Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
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The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.
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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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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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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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...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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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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It is my heart that's late, it is my song that's flown.
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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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Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits they do not come to coo.
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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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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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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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We have to learn how to live with our frailties. The best people I know are inadequate and unashamed.
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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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The supreme morality of art is to endure.
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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.
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The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
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