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 Copy Share Image
Turn on the dream you lived through the unwavering gaze. It is as you thought: the living burn. In the floating days may you… — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
Is there a mechanism of death, that so mutilates existence no one, gets over it not even the dead? — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
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… — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
“The Correspondence-School Instructor Says Goodbye to His Poetry Students Goodbye, lady in Bangor, who sent me snapshots of yourself, after definitely hinting you were… — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
the rest of my days I spend wandering: wondering what, anyway, was that sticky infusion, that rank flavor of blood, that poetry, by which… — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
I love to go out in late September among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries to eat blackberries for breakfast, the stalks very prickly,… — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
“Bending over her bed, I saw the smile I must have seen when gaping up from the crib. Knowing death will come, sensing its… — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
“When the man touches through to the exact center of the woman, he lies motionless, in equilibrium, in absolute desire, at the threshold of… — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
“This happened to your father and to you, Galway-sick to stay, longing to come up against the ends of the earth, and climb over.” — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
“Wait Wait, for now. Distrust everything, if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven't they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events… — Galway Kinnell Copy Share Image
