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Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
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
Poem
Poetry
Enemy
More quotes by Stanley Kunitz
The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
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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.
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An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.
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The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
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It is my heart that's late, it is my song that's flown.
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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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Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits they do not come to coo.
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End with an image and don't explain.
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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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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
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My mother never forgave my father
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Forward my mail to Mars.
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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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The supreme morality of art is to endure.
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Poetry today is easier to write but harder to remember.
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Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
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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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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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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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