Robert Musil ~ The Meaning Of Poetry
"Ultimately a poem, and the mystery of it, cuts the meaning of the world clear, where it is bound fast by thousands of ordinary words ..."
Austrian author (1880-1942) of the famous novel The Man without Qualities
Gabriela Mistral ~ Dusk
I feel my heart melting
in the mildness like candles
my veins are slow oil
and not wine,
and I feel my life fleeing
hushed and gentle like the gazelle.
(April 7, 1889 – January 10, 1957 / Vicuna / Chile)
Mallarme ~ The Creation Of Silence
"It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things."
Jorge Luis Borges ~ The Sum
The silent friendliness of the moon
(misquoting Virgil) accompanies you
since that one night or evening lost
in time now, on which your restless
eyes first deciphered her forever
in a garden or patio turned to dust.
Forever? I know someone, someday
will be able to tell you truthfully:
‘You’ll never see the bright moon again,
You’ve now achieved the unalterable
sum of moments granted you by fate.
Useless to open every window
in the world. Too late. You’ll not find her.’
We live discovering and forgetting
that sweet familiarity of the night.
Take a long look. It might be the last.
Jorge Luis Borges
Painting is "Moon light over the Seine"
Henry Pether (1828-1865)
Lighthouse In The Night ~ Poem By Alfonsina Storni
The sky a black sphere,
the sea a black disk.
The lighthouse opens
its solar fan on the coast.
Spinning endlessly at night,
whom is it searching for
when the mortal heart
looks for me in the chest?
Look at the black rock
where it is nailed down.
A crow digs endlessly
but no longer bleeds.
Last Fire ~ Poem By Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Love,through your spirit and mine what summer eve
Now glows with glory of all things possess'd,
Since this day's sun of rapture filled the west
And the light sweetened as the fire took leave?
Awhile now softlier let your bosom heave,
As in Love's harbour, even that loving breast,
All care takes refuge while we sink to rest,
And mutual dreams the bygone bliss retrieve.
Many the days that Winter keeps in store,
Sunless throughout, or whose brief sun-glimpses
Scarce shed the heaped snow through the naked trees,
This day at least was Summer's paramour,
Sun-coloured to the imperishable core
With sweet well-being of love and full heart's ease.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
painting Daydream by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Fish Song ~ Poem By Alan Kleiman
Nobody knows da trouble I’ve seen
Nobody knows my sorrow
Nobody knows da trouble I’ve seen
Lordy lordy lord.
Nobody now knows nothing
No words of my life
No nothing that moves or shakes me.
What is my life but a sad tale
Of fish flying
And maybe a whale
Nobody knows the trouble
Nobody’s now my girl
Rhubarb and roses
Fly away home.
© Alan Kleiman 2011
Somerset Maugham ~ On Poetry
The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the sublimest activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty and delicacy. The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes.
~W. Somerset Maugham
W.h. Auden ~ How Does A Poet Earn His Money?
"It is a sad fact about our culture that a poet can earn much more money writing or talking about his art than he can by practicing it."
Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ Sadness
"Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths of some devine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more."
Alfred Lord Tennyson