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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
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
Surprised
Changing
Meaning
Poetry
Language
More quotes by Stanley Kunitz
Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
Stanley Kunitz
Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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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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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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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.
Stanley Kunitz
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.
Stanley Kunitz
Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits they do not come to coo.
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The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.
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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
Stanley Kunitz
I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.
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The supreme morality of art is to endure.
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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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In every house of marriage there's room for an interpreter.
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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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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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