Still, no one finally knows what a poet is supposed either to be or to do. Especially in this country, one takes on the job—because all that one does in America is considered a "job"—with no clear sense as to… — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
I will go to the garden. I will be a romantic. I will sell myself in hell, in heaven also I will be. — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
God give you pardon from gratitude and other mild forms of servitude. — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
The Lady has always moved to the next town and you stumble on after Her. — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
Moon, moon, when you leave me alone all the darkness is an utter blackness, a pit of fear, a stench, hands unreasonable never to… — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
All of which was OK, as that proved then, I certainly wouldn't contradict it as a necessary sense of things. — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
That poetry survived in its formal agencies finally, and that prose survived to get something said. — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
He lives out in Orchard Park. I mean, to be able to sit on the bench so patiently, for whatever part, and to be… — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
Comes the time when it's later and onto your table the headwaiter puts the bill — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
It's the classic story form. All staying equal, or proving equal, or being equal, this will all continue, and the next time around, we'll… — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
It is hard going to the door cut so small in the wall where the vision which echoes loneliness brings a scent of wild… — Robert Creeley Copy Share Image
