I had been hungry all the years-
My noon had come, to dine-
I, trembling, drew the table near
And touched the curious wine.
'Twas this on tables I had seen
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,
‘Twas so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature’s diningroom.
The plenty hurt me, ‘twas so new,—
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry; so I found”
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.
– Emily Dickinson
But I don’t shut up and I don’t die.
and fight, maddening
those who rule my country.
For if I live”
and if I fight
I contribute to the dawn.
– Otto René Castillo
“One must read poetry with one’s nerves.”
– Wallace Stevens
“Poetry is a life-cherishing force.”
– Mary Oliver
“Love is like the wild rose-briar;
Friendship like the holly-tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring
,Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,
And deck thee with holly’s sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
He still may leave thy garland green.”
– Emily Dickinson
“A black cat among roses,
phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,
the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.
It is dazed with moonlight,
contented with perfume…”
– Amy Lowell
“Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.”
– John Donne
“The inmost spirit of poetry, in other words, is at bottom, in every recorded case, the voice of pain – and the physical body, so to speak, of poetry, is the treatment by which the poet tries to reconcile that pain with the world.”
– Ted Hughes
“Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.”
– Pablo Neruda
“The poet doesn’t invent. He listens.”
– Jean Cocteau