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How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?

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
Feast
Losses
Loss
Shall
Heart
Reconciled

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A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of.
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I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.
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The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.
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Poetry today is easier to write but harder to remember.
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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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Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
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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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End with an image and don't explain.
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The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
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The supreme morality of art is to endure.
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My mother never forgave my father
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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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Forward my mail to Mars.
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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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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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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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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
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A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.
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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
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