Quotes by Galway Kinnell - Page 1

Let our scars fall in love.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Fall
Falling In Love
Scar
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Prose is walking; poetry is flying
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Flying
Poetry Is
Prose
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The first step... shall be to lose the way.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Travel
Firsts
Way
First Step
Lose
Shall
Step
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Go so deep into yourself, you speak for everyone.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
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The first step in the journey is to lose your way.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Journey
Firsts
Steps
Way
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Sometimes it is necessary To reteach a thing its loveliness
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Loveliness
Sometimes
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Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Fall
Falling In Love
Mind
Self
Least
Scars
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The bud stands for all things, even for those things that don't flower
Galway Kinnell / Poet
All Things
Bud
Flower
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I have always intended to live forever; but not until now, to live now.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Forever
Live Forever
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I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Special
Way
Wrong Person
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Perhaps poetry will be the canary in the mine-shaft warning us of what's to come.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Canaries
Mines
Warning
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There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Cry
Two
Versions
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Is there a mechanism of death, that so mutilates existence no one, gets over it not even the dead?
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Existence
Get Over
Over It
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Kiss the mouth which tells you, here, here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Kissing
Laughter
World
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Thats the way it is with poetry: When it is incomprehensible it seems profound, and when you understand it, it is only ridiculous.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Profound
Ridiculous
Way
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That's the way it is with poetry: When it is incomprehensible it seems profound, and when you understand it, it is only ridiculous.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Profound
Incomprehensible
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Turn on the dream you lived through the unwavering gaze. It is as you thought: the living burn. In the floating days may you discover grace.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Dream
Floating
Grace
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the rest of my days I spend wandering: wondering what, anyway, was that sticky infusion, that rank flavor of blood, that poetry, by which I lived?
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Poetry
Blood
Flavor
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To me, poetry is somebody standing up, so to speak, and saying, with as little concealment as possible, what it is for him or her to be on earth at this moment
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Earth
Littles
Speak
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this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, this blessing love gives again into our arms.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Blessing
Children
Memories
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Goodbye, you who are, for me, the postmarks again of shattered towns--Xenia, Burnt Cabins, Hornell-- their loneliness given away in poems, only their solitude kept.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
War
Goodbye
Loneliness
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It is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on its brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Inspirational
Blessing
Flower
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I start off but I don't know where I'm going; I try this avenue and that avenue, that turns out to be a dead end, this is a dead end, and so on. The search takes a long time and I have to back-track often.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Long
Track
Trying
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Little sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight, when I come back we will go out together, we will walk out together among, the ten thousand things, each scratched too late with such knowledge, the wages of dying is love.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Dying
Hair
Sleep
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When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up, and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us. I think you think I will never die, I think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars, even as my broken arms heal themselves around you.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Broken
Stars
Thinking
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Second-hand gloves will become lovely again, their memories are what give them the need for other hands. And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Hands
Love Is
Memories
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The only sense we still respect is eyesight, probably because it is so closely attached to the brain. Go into any American house at random, you will find something - a plastic flower, false tiles, some imitation something - something which can be appreciated as material only if apprehended by eyesight alone. Don't we go sightseeing in cars, thinking we can experience a landscape by looking at it through glass?
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Flower
Glasses
Thinking
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I love to go out in late September among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries to eat blackberries for breakfast, the stalks very prickly, a penalty they earn for knowing the black art of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries fall almost unbidden to my tongue, as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words like strengths or squinched, many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps, which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well in the silent, startled, icy, black language of blackberry - eating in late September.
Galway Kinnell / Poet
Art
Fall
Knowing
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Galway Kinnell Quotes - Page 1

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