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A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.

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
Dance
Life
Stirs
Buried
Longing

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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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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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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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We have to learn how to live with our frailties. The best people I know are inadequate and unashamed.
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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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Live in the layers, not on the litter.
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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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It is my heart that's late, it is my song that's flown.
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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.
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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 language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
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How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?
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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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End with an image and don't explain.
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An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.
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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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