Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance - Carl Sandburg..........Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject - John Keats .........Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge - William Wordsworth ..........Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand - Plato .........No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language - Samuel Taylor Coleridge .........One demands two things of a poem. Firstly, it must be a well-made verbal object that does honor to the language in which it is written. Secondly, it must say something significant about a reality common to us all, but perceived from a unique perspective. What the poet says has never been said before, but, once he has said it, his readers recognize its validity for themselves - W. H. Auden ...........Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash - Leonard Cohen .........There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know - William Cowper .........Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood -T. S. Eliot ..........Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason - Novalis...........He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life - George Sand .........A poem is never finished, only abandoned - Paul Valery ........A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland - Kahlil Gibran.............Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance - John Keats..........To be a poet is a condition, not a profession - Robert Frost........A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself - E. M. Forster.........Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo - Don Marquis...........Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things - T. S. Eliot ..........You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it tick. You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in - Dylan Thomas .........Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words - Paul Engle......... There is not a joy the world can give like that it takes away! Lord Byron

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there are different kinds of missing. maybe this is the kind

where i notice the edges of myself more, like smudging kohl at the corners

of an eye draws attention to it, or, when having come inside, you realise

you can feel your fingers again. nothing new, exactly, but you notice

yourself as something separate to the music contained in a car.

 

that photograph

you looked like you were on a  fairground ride, or cresting  a wave, maybe it was the angle of the light, or the shot. half of your face in shadow, the cleft of your chin. i

could have made a brass rubbing of the folds of your t-shirt, rolled it up and tucked it under my arm to take away. like an umbrella. how english! there are times i feel we could do anything.

 viki holmes - Wales

dual

viki holmes - Wales

he sends me pictures of a city the colour of orangeade, it makes my head fizz. his photographer friend writes gnomic poems underneath images of cherry blossom in the street, another smile in shadow. beauty that is the more so for its transience. sometimes i wonder if she is a woman he could love. i feel safe crying in the dark, the tears grow like flowers under my chin.

 

i remember how you would hold me as though you held the night in your arms, keeping it back. i can’t remember how i was before, just that i used to hold my breath so that no one would know i was there. there are different kinds of love, but nearly all of mine involve words. some kinds are pictures, we exchange them like marbles, like an auctioneer displaying his wares. you show me people i may never see, what can i give you in return? i’m scared to tell you how much, but i do anyway.

 

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