Charles Baudelaire, Complete Poems: Spleen et Idéal; from 'The Alchemist of Sorrows', tr. Walter Martin
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e.e. cummings, from "o purple finch” (in 73 Poems), Complete Poems: 1904-1962
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Our sweetest songs are those of saddest thought.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Complete Poems, January 1, 1993
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Why did Baudelaire — why does anyone — write poetry, in the teeth of all the evidence that one wants you to do so? No one wants you to write it and having written it in spite of them, no one wants to read it. Above all, no one wants to pay for it. For better or worse, a poem has a hard time turning into a commodity.
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everything u need to know about me can actually be explained by the fact that i read that poem about the serving girl wearing the pearls so they're warm for her mistress when i was like 11 and it rewrote my brain chemistry forever
like this Changed Me
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"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader."
- Robert Frost, The Figure a Poem Makes
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Mama gave me music lessons,
now I play the saddest songs
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Naomi Shihab Nye, “Sifter.” A Maze Me: Poems for Girls
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The Devil jerks the strings that make us dance!
Charles Baudelaire, Complete Poems; from 'To The Reader', tr. Walter Martin
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Emily Dickinson, from Poem #1320 ("Dear March--Come in--"), The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson [ID'd]
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someone once told me
there is no demon more frightening
than a good man
who has gone to war.
someone once told me
the only things we get to choose
are a hero's death
or a villain's life.
so they said.
so they said.
so they say.
but no one ever told me
what happens when a good man
goes to war
and becomes the demon.
but no one ever told me
you can die a hero
and be resurrected
to a villain's afterlife.
- by sylvie (j.p.)
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A poet’s freedom lies precisely in the impossibility of worldly success. It is the freedom of one who knows he will never be anything but a failure in the world’s estimation, and may do as he pleases. The poet is a man on the sidelines of life, sidelined for life. He belongs to the aristocracy of the outcast, the lowest of the low, below the salt of the earth. A member of the most ancient regime in the world. One that cannot, it seems, be overthrown.
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— Marina Tsvetaeva, from “The Complete Poems.”
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The Renunciations, Donika Kelly
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