Robert Lowell Quotes
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We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
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the scythers, Time and Death, Helmed locusts, move upon the tree of breath
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It's a completely powerful and serious book, as good as anything in prose or poetry written by a 'beat' writer, and one of the most alive books written by any American for years. I don't see how it could be considered immoral.
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September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.
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Once fishing was a rabbit's foot-- O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot
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In the end, there is no end.
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What can the dove of Jesus give You now but wisdom, exile? Stand and live, The dove has brought an olive branch to eat.
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I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn. But where The wind is westerly, Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly Into the apparitions of the sky, They purpose nothing but their ease and die Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea.
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In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.
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And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.
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I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn.
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Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.
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It is night, And it is vanity, and age Blackens the heart of Adam. Fear, The yellow chirper, beaks its cage.
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It's the light of the oncoming train.
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Sometimes nothing is so solid to me as writing - I suppose that's what a vocation means - at times a torment, a bad conscience, but all in all, purpose and direction.
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History has to live with what was here, clutching and close to fumbling all we had - it is so dull and gruesome how we die, unlike writing, life never finishes.
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But sometimes everything I write with the threadbare art of my eye seems a snapshot
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Wallowing in this bloody sty, I cast for fish that pleased my eye
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I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.
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Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
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I myself am hell; nobody's here
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Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.
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The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
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Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.
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I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.
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Those blessed structures, plot and rhyme-- why are they no help to me now I want to make something imagined, not recalled?
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I was overcome with an attack of pathological enthusiasm.
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Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.
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Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime
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We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.
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