Let me put this as delicately as I can: If you don’t read, your writing is going to suck.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
“great writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the best part for paper.
good human beings save the world
so that bastards like me can keep creating art,
if you read this after I am dead
it means I made it.”
Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
in the rain-
darkness, the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
your eyes half-
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss
there is the sweet shy pirouette
a single star is
uttered, and i
A word is not the same with one writer as it is with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
Tonight’s December thirty-first,
Something is about to burst.
The clock is crouching, dark and small,
Like a time bomb in the hall.
Hark, it’s midnight, children dear.
Duck! Here comes another year!