Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.
Poetic talent doesn't operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.
Contemporary poets are skeptical and suspicious even, or perhaps especially, about themselves. They publicly confess to being poets only reluctantly, as if they were a little ashamed of it. But in our clamorous times it's much easier to acknowledge your faults, at least if they're attractively packaged, than to recognize your own merits, since these are hidden deeper and you never quite believe in them yourself.
I have sympathy for young people, for their growing pains, but I balk when these growing pains are pushed into the foreground, when you make these young people the only vehicles of lifes wisdom.
No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring.
I cannot imagine any writer who would not fight for his peace and quiet.
I've had the good fortune to read a lot of great American writers in translation, and my absolute beloved, for me one of the greatest writers ever, is Mark Twain. Yes, yes, yes. And Whitman, from whom the whole of 20th-century poetry sprung up. Whitman was the origin of things, someone with a completely different outlook. But I think that he's the father of the new wave in the world's poetry which to this very day is hitting the shore.
I am a tarsier and a tarsier's son, the grandson and great-grandson of tarsiers, a tiny creature, made up of two pupils and whatever simply could not be left out.
I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.
There's simply too much fuss about myself.
Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
Dying - you can't do that to a cat.
My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before. A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.
I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.
I started earning a living as a poet rather early on.
What does the world get from two people/who exist in a world of their own?
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