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An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.

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
Showing
Technique
Caught
Poet
Ought
Never

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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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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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We have to learn how to live with our frailties. The best people I know are inadequate and unashamed.
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It is my heart that's late, it is my song that's flown.
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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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Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits they do not come to coo.
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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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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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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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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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The supreme morality of art is to endure.
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Forward my mail to Mars.
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Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
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A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of.
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My mother never forgave my father
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Live in the layers, not on the litter.
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How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?
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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
Stanley Kunitz
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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.
Stanley Kunitz