poetry

Books! tis a dull and endless strife:Come, hear the woodland linnet,How sweet his music! on my life,There's more of wisdom in it.

I learned a world from each / one whom I loved

We don__ know anything about silent sages, buried knowledge, the eye of the mute poet, serene seers, yet how many talkative destroyers, prophets and ideologues, teachers and beautifiers there are on the other side.

By means of poetry all this suffering and effort could be transformed into dream; no matter how much of the ephemeral existed, poetry could immortalize it by turning it into song. Only two or three primitive passions had governed me until this time: fear, the struggle to conquer fear, and the yearning for freedom. But now two new passions were kindled inside me: beauty and the thirst for learning.

... because one day, maybe one day, if I learned how to write clear enough, sing loud enough, be strong enough, I could explain myself in a way that made sense and then maybe one day, one day, someone out there would hear and recognise her or himself and I could let them know that they are not alone. Just like that song I had on repeat for several nights as I walked lonely on empty streets, let me know that I was notaloneand that__ how it starts.

The life we__e given is on a thread, so wear it well.

I am alive to a usual objection to what is clearly part of my programme for the metier of poetry. The objection is that the doctrine requires a ridiculous amount of erudition (pedantry), a claim which can be rejected by appeal to the lives of poets in any pantheon. It will even be affirmed that much learning deadens or perverts poetic sensibility. While, however, we persist in believing that a poet ought to know as much as will not encroach upon his necessary receptivity and necessary laziness, it is not desirable to confine knowledge to whatever can be put into a useful shape for examinations, drawing rooms, or the still more pretentious modes of publicity. Some can absorb knowledge, the more tardy must sweat for it. Shakespeare acquired more essential history from Plutarch than most men could from the whole British Museum. What is to be insisted upon is that the poet must develop this consciousness throughout his career. What happens is a continual surrender of himself as he is at the moment to something which is more valuable. The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.

Stop blaming people for not helping you. No matter how your teacher teaches you to recite a poem, you can__ wear her smiling face to the platform. You__e got to put that smile on your own face.

It could have been so beautiful.The way I learned and got free and swore to never love another person ever againand it could have been so beautiful,the way I actually did.

He had an answer to almost everything and he retired at an early age.

He knows he will be born again, And start fresh anew.

Everything that looks too perfect is too perfect to be perfect.

Heavenly bodies are nests of invisible birds.

To come to nothing through something is the way to outside from both sides.

DYING IS NOT HOTBy Celia the DarkCool is no longer cool because cool is now hot,and school isn't school if you are skipping.Then the neighborhood is school and John,the creepy dropout guy is teaching.And it isn't cool because the cool kids stay in school,where the other cool kids tell them them how hot they areand they wouldn't want to miss a dance for cutting.Kids who skip school were never cool or hot butalready dumped into the trashcan with leftover lunch pizza,bruised into a locker, asking their parents for extra lunch moneyso they can smoke and act like they never cared anyway.And skipping school's not cool but it is schoolbecause that's where they learn what the uncool learnabout life and dying.

The First BookOpen it.Go ahead, it won't bite.Well. . . maybe a little.More a nip, like. A tingle.It's pleasurable, really.You see, it keeps on opening.You may fall in.Sure, it's hard to get started;remember learning to useknife and fork? Dig in:you'll never reach bottom.It's not like it's the end of the world--just the world as you thinkyou know it.

Latin is a dead tongue And Romans made songs! Then no one disagree: It delighted them in theory Now it's "the Latin" in me.

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,Stuffed with the stuff that is course, and stuffed with the stuff that is fine, one of the nation, of many nations, the smallest the same and the the largest