#poetryeater

[leite-mot-nord]

В чужбине свято наблюдаю Родной обычай старины: На волю птичку выпускаю При светлом празднике весны. Я стал доступен утешенью; За что на бога мне роптать, Когда хоть одному творенью Я мог свободу даровать!

“Птичка”, А.С. Пушкин 

[poetryeater]

from Pablo Neruda, "Epithalamium"

...

as if I had never walked except with you, my heart,  as if I could not walk except with you, as if I could not sing except when you sing.

[poetryeater]

We love we know not what, and therefore everything allures us.

Thomas Traherne

[poetryeater]

from Lisa Robertson, "Residence at C______"

My purpose here is to advance into The sense of the weather, the lesson of The weather

[poetryeater]

Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are.

Philip Larkin

[poetryeater]

A poem is solitary and on its way.

Paul Celan

[poetryeater]

Poetry -- but what is poetry anyway? More than one rickety answer has tumbled since that question first was raised. But I just keep on not knowing, and I cling to that like a redemptive handrail.

Wisława Szymborska

[poetryeater]

But language, you might say, has a life of our own, and a writer can start there instead, with the energies of the prison-house, or house of being, or mother tongue, body speech, animal music, or word-as-such. All these various linguistics interest me, but less and less the closer you get to solipsism, which comes about from spending too much time indoors. I need a linguistics I can talk with. The meetings of experience and language-- negotiation, abrasion, dominion, cross-pollination, intercourse, infection; the 'wondrously tedious monotony and variety of the world' (Francis Ponge).

Don McKay, Some Remarks on Poetry and Poetic Attention