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The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
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
Form
Mind
Like
Rapture
Breaking
Poem
Blessing
Comes
More quotes by Stanley Kunitz
Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits they do not come to coo.
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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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Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
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End with an image and don't explain.
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I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
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Live in the layers, not on the litter.
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In every house of marriage there's room for an interpreter.
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The supreme morality of art is to endure.
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A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of.
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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 the enemy of the poem.
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I can hardly wait for tomorrow, it means a new life for me each and every day.
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A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.
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An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.
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Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
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How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?
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Poetry is language surprised in the act of changing into meaning.
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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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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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Forward my mail to Mars.
Stanley Kunitz
