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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
Stirs
Buried
Longing
Dance
Life

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It is my heart that's late, it is my song that's flown.
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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits they do not come to coo.
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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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The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.
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End with an image and don't explain.
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My mother never forgave my father
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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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In every house of marriage there's room for an interpreter.
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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
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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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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
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I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.
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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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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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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
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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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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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