Heyókȟa

W.S. Merwin talks briefly about meeting Ezra Pound as a teenager, and how Pound inspired him to translate. Merwin is now a past U.S. Poet Laureate and one of the greatest translators of our age.

1 month ago -

1

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.

CZESLAW MILOSZ, Ars Poetica?

2 months ago

What was any art but a mold to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself- life hurrying past us and running away, to strong to stop, too sweet to lose.

Willa Cather (via tantum)

(Source: implexa)

2 months ago -

6

your hair is my Carthage

and my arms the bow

and our words the arrows

to shoot the stars

who from the misty sea

swarm to destroy us.

~ William Carlos Williams

3 months ago

Most of what calls itself contemporary is built whether it knows it or not, out of a desire to be liked. It is created in imitation of what already exists and is already admired. There is, in other words, nothing new about it. To be contemporary is to rise through the stack of the past, like the fire through the mountain. Only a heat so deeply and intelligently born can carry a new idea into the air.

Mary Oliver

3 months ago

Claire Boucher AKA Grimes

(Source: amarisha)

3 months ago -

41

whitemystere:

Une Femme Mariee - Jean-Luc Godard , 1964.

“Even in love you can’t go very far…it’s like a house you can’t enter…you kiss you caress but you’re still on the outside.”

(via nickelcobalt)

3 months ago -

204

A poem may be the residue of an inner urgency, one through which the self wishes to register itself, write itself into being, and, finally, to charm another self, the reader, into belief. It may also be something equally elusive — the ghost within every experience that wishes it could be seen or felt, acknowledged as a kind of meaning. It could be a truth so forgiving that it offers up a humanness in which we are able to imagine ourselves. A poem is a place where the conditions of beyondness and whithinness are made palpable, where to imagine is to feel what it is like to be. It allows us to have the life we are denied because we are to busy living. Even more paradoxically, poetry permits us to live in ourselves as if we were just out of reach of ourselves.

Mark Strand

3 months ago

This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

Jack Kerouac (via apathie)

(Source: arosary, via cndle)

4 months ago -

333

(Source: noliesjustlovenothing)

4 months ago -

21

Heyókȟa

The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will.

What was any art but a mold to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself- life hurrying past us and running away, to strong to stop, too sweet to lose.

This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.