no poet can know what his poem is going to be like until he has written it. Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
He'd been let down so oftenHis brow was on the floorBut then they foundA small hole in the groundAnd let him down some more Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
I will go to campus alone dressed in antique silk slips and beat-up cowboy boots and gypsy beads, and I will study poetry. I will sit on the edge of the fountain in the plaza and write. Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
I'll be writing as long as I can hold a pen in my curled, crimped arthritic hands and then I'll dictate it, if it comes to that. They'll have to pry my pen out of my cold, dead fingers - and even then, I'll fight 'em for it. Guaranteed. Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
J'ai cueilli ce brin de bruyèreL'automne est morte souviens-t'enNous ne nous verrons plus sur terreOdeur du temps brin de bruyèreEt souviens-toi que je t'attends Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
Poetry is nothing if it exists only in books. One has to find it in one's own life. Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
The crazy thing about poetry is how its simplicity makes it complicated. Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
a happy birthdaythis evening, I sat by an open windowand read till the light was gone and the bookwas no more than a part of the darkness.I could easily have switched on a lamp,but I wanted to ride the day down into night,to sit alone, and smooth the unreadable pagewith the pale gray ghost of my hand Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed. Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>
Imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic. Nov 24, 2024 - Fabian Biese>