Friday, October 17, 2014


Poetry is a sort of inspired mathematics, which gives us equations, not for abstract figures, triangles, squares, and the like, but for the human emotions. If one has a mind which inclines to magic rather than science, one will prefer to speak of these equations as spells or incantations; it sounds more arcane, mysterious, recondite.


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.

Thursday, October 16, 2014


Today I hate all poetry. I long for a businesslike and speculative parlando. No magic tricks, no pulling out all the stops with sounds, no concealed music; talking in myself, as if someone is sitting here beside me; the peaceful musing in the loneliness of a sleeping house. Beleaving in the honesty of this.

Monday, October 13, 2014


The artist must copy what is inside the object, that which exercises its action by the intermediary of the form and figure and addresses itself to us by means of symbols: the spirit of Nature.