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Quote by Wisława Szymborska

“There's nothing more debauched than thinking. This sort of wantonness runs wild like a wind-borne weed on a plot laid out for daisies. Nothing's sacred for those who think. Calling things brazenly by name, risque analyses, salacious syntheses, frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts, the filthy fingering of touchy subjects, discussion in heat--it's music to their ears.”

Quote by Wisława Szymborska

Book:View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems
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View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems

This compilation showcases the author's poetic prowess, capturing the essence of life's complexities and beauty in succinct, evocative verses. more

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Wisława Szymborska

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“Golden Things" Oh, he promised me rings... and golden things, And a house looking over the sea... But I never said once, to that boy at my side, That all I wanted was him... next to me... He gave me his dreams, his exalted schemes, Of the hopes that he planned to make true, But I never said once, to that boy trying so- That my love, demanded no clue... He gave what he could... and I took what I should... And our days, were long and green... But I never said once, to the boy wanting me- That it was love, gave life its sheen... How the years wash away... Like the waves in the Bay... Love for him, is a game to play For his dreams became things- And his schemes were the means, Of making every wish come my way... But I lost him somewhere... as he climbed up the stair... Where's the boy my man used to be? With his rings on my hands- and his gold shining 'round... I'm alone in my house by the sea For I should have said once- to this man that I loved... That all I wanted... was him... loving me.”

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Author:V.C. Andrews
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“The Shadow Waltz by Stewart Stafford She lays with me by night, Hewn from dark solitude, Without malice aforethought. Creaking springs as she crawls to me, In a frantic state, Babbling desperately about her pain. Nails caress my abdomen and chest, Strange warmth emanates from her, Then she rises. And is gone, Melting with the corner darkness again, Watching my slumber from the shadows. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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“This hour I tell things in confidence. I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. To publish these lines is, of course, to tell everybody. Much as he wants to take us into his confidence, seduce with the warmth and directness of his voice, he's also making one of his sly jokes: he's created an intimacy with all the doors and windows open, in which you could be anyone at all. Even as I laugh at the line, I feel the gesture of his arm around my shoulder, drawing my ear nearer his mouth. What is the difference, in a poem, between performed intimacy and the real thing? What, in a work of art, is not performed? Whitman, perhaps more than any poet before him, explored and exploited poetry's strange duality. In the best poems, we feel the poet's breath, the almost-physical presence of the speaker created by all the tools at the writer's disposal. I sometimes feel that Walt has just walked into the room, as present now as he ever was, a sensual, breathing body that he somehow seems to have constructed of nothing but words.”

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Book:What Is the Grass: Walt Whitman in My Life
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“Where on earth did it come from? You can ask that question of any poem, and one inevitable answer is a simple one: work. No made thing springs up unbidden, even those that seem to. The poem that announced itself to the intoxicated Coleridge, before a knock at the door banished most of it from his memory, or the composition that sprung full blown into the head of Mozart, as he stepped down from a carriage after a satisfying dinner, seemed to pour from the artist's hand, so long schooled those hands had become. But years of labor inform those spontaneous productions. Though a poem over which one struggles may seem labored, it often prepares the way for new writing in which what's been learned emerges with an effortless grace.”

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Book:What Is the Grass: Walt Whitman in My Life
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