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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.

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
Like
Ending
Door
Window
Doors

More quotes by Stanley Kunitz

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The supreme morality of art is to endure.
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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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Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
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A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of.
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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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Poetry today is easier to write but harder to remember.
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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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Live in the layers, not on the litter.
Stanley Kunitz
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The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
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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An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.
Stanley Kunitz
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Forward my mail to Mars.
Stanley Kunitz
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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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Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits they do not come to coo.
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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.
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
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How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?
Stanley Kunitz
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Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
Stanley Kunitz
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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
Stanley Kunitz