Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself.
Thank you, I’m so glad you’re enjoying Stevens.
I’m not a fan of Oliver’s poetry. To put it bluntly, I couldn’t hate it more.
“I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.”
"I want to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable, beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.”
“Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled—
to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.”
This kind of gag-worthy, trite stuff is just not for me; I’m in enough pain. So, needless to say, since you’re asking me, I recommend none of it.
Mary Oliver is a poet pretending to be wise. She isn’t wise at all.
Go with Dickinson instead. Go with Whitman or Hart Crane or, Hell, anyone else.
The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful.
[The future] is a tango. It is a waterfall between
two countries, the river that tried to drown you.
It is a city where men speak a language
you can fake if you must. It’s the hands of children
thieving your empty pockets. It’s bicycles
with bells ringing through the streets at midnight.
Come up from the basement. It’s not over.
That’s why I’m not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind.
Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.