Dec 282018
 
I’m moving slow enough to see
A robin standing on the shoulder
Beside the cars, head twisted so,
One eye staring up to the sun,
Another staring down to salt, 
grey dust and asphalt. Hit,
It stands, caught for a moment
On two legs—for just one moment— 

Then it falls on its side
Never to move again.
Jan 202016
 

Poetry is a vision of the world obtained by an effort, sometimes exhausting, of the taut, buttressed will. Poetry is willful. It is not an abandonment, a free and gratuitous entry by the senses; it is not to be confused with sensuality, but rather, opposing it, was born, for example, on Saturdays, when, to clean the rooms, housewives put the red velvet chairs, gilded mirrors, and mahogany tables outside, in the nearby meadow.

–Jean Genet, Notre-Dame des Fleurs

 Genet Defines Poetry  January 20, 2016  Tagged with: ,
May 082015
 

Poetry is a Destructive Force

That’s what misery is,
Nothing to have at heart.
It is to have or nothing.

It is a thing to have,
A lion, an ox in his breast,
To feel it breathing there.

Corazon, stout dog,
Young ox, bow-legged bear,
He tastes its blood, not spit.

He is like a man
In the body of a violent beast.
Its muscles are his own . . .

The lion sleeps in the sun.
Its nose is on its paws.
It can kill a man.

—Wallace Stevens