… i didn’t fall in love of courseit’s never up to youbut she was walking back and forthand i was passing through
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat; you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is and all he was a thousand kisses deep.
There is a crack in everything.That’s how the light gets in.
first of all nothing will happen and a little laternothing will happen again
so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos…So ring the bells that still can ringForget your perfect offeringThere is a crack in everythingThat’s how the light gets in.
Who could have foretoldthe heart grows oldfrom touching others
At first first nothing will happen to usand later on it will happen to us again.
I walk through the old yellow sunlightto get to my kitchen tablethe poem about melying there with the booksin which I am listedamong the dead and future Dylans
I’ve forgotten most of what I’ve read and, frankly, it never seemed very important to me or to the world.
Friend, when you speak this carefully I know it is because you don’t know what to say.
There is a crack, a crack, in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
Reality is one of the possibilities I cannot afford to ignore
Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in.
If only my genitals didn’t floatWhen I relaxed in the bathAnd we both looked down and we both agreedIt’s stupid to be a man
And may my bronze name / touch always her thousand fingers / grow brighter with her weeping / until I am fixed like a galaxy / and memorized / in her secret and fragile skies.
How quickly pettiness returns, and that most ignoble form of real estate, the possessive occupation and tyranny over two square inches of human flesh, the wife’s cunt.
There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.
Blessed is the covenant of love, the covenant of mercy, useless light behind the terror, deathless song in the house of night.
Blessed are you who circled desire with a blade, and the garden with fiery swords, and heaven and earth with a word.
Though I love your company, your instructions are wasted her. I will always choose the woman who caries me off, I will always sit with the family of loneliness.
My animal howlsMy angel’s upsetBut I’m not allowedA trace of regret
It is easy to display a wound, the proud scars of combat. It is hard to show a pimple
Show me slowly what I onlyknow the limits ofDance me to the end of love
If I spelled out the Principles of FaithI would be barking on the moon.
I know she is coming I know she will look And that is the longing And this is the book.
The RemoteI often think about youwhen I’m lying alone inmy room with my mouthopen and the remotelost somewhere in the bed.
Dear friend, I have searched all nightthrough each burnt paper,but I fear I will never findthe formula to let you die
Remember when I moved in you and the holy dove was moving too, and every breath we drew was, “Hallelujah.
It looks like freedom but it feels like death, it’s something in between I guess. It’s closing time.
I want history to jump on Canada’s spine with sharp skates.
Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as a secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.
In dreams the truth is learned that all good works are done in the absence of a caress.
To every people the land is given on condition. Perceived or not, there is a Covenant, beyond the constitution, beyond sovereign guarantee, beyond the nation’s sweetest dreams of itself.
I think the term poet is a very exalted term and should be applied to a man at the end of his work. When he looks back over the body of his work and he’s written poetry then let the verdict be that he’s a poet.
Let judges secretly despair of justice: their verdicts will be more acute. Let generals secretly despair of triumph killing will be defamed. Let priests secretly despair of faith: their compassion will be true.
I never really liked poetry readings; I liked to read poetry by myself, but I liked singing, chanting my lyrics to this jazz group.
I always thought that poetry is the verdict that others give to a certain kind of writing. So to call yourself a poet is a kind of dangerous description. It’s for others it’s for others to use.
My reputation as a ladies’ man was a joke. It caused me to laugh bitterly through the 10,000 nights I spent alone.