Dear Robert Frost,
I used to live in a world where every winter there was the assurance of snow. I would sit in the woods across from my house with my dog, watching the woods fill up with snow. I would watch as the snowflakes gracefully danced through the frozen sky, slowly descending upon the earth.
Read rest of poem by Katja Saana Sinikka Martin at The Library of Congress “Letters About Literature” website
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
“Writers don’t write from experience, although many are hesitant to admit that they don’t. …If you wrote from experience, you’d get maybe one book, maybe three poems. Writers write from empathy.”
― Nikki Giovanni
(quote found at Goodreads)
the last time i was home
to see my mother we kissed
and unpleasantries pulled a warm
Alice at Seventeen: Like a Blind Child
One summer afternoon, I learned my body
like a blind child leaving a walled
school for the first time, stumbling
from cool hallways to a world
Read rest of poem at Poets.org
Read more poems at Drunken Boat from the series Cummings wrote about the grown-up Alice of Alice in Wonderland.
“In school no time is spent, alas, on the aesthetic analysis of literary works. Central themes are stressed along with their historical context. Such knowledge is of course crucial, but it will not suffice for anyone wishing to become a good, independent reader, let alone for someone with creative ambitions. Our young correspondents are often shocked that their poem about rebuilding postwar Warsaw or the tragedy of Vietnam might not be good. They’re convinced that honorable intentions preempt form. But if you want to become a decent cobbler, it’s not enough to enthuse over human feet. You have to know your leather, your tools, pick the right pattern, and so forth. . . . It holds true for artistic creation too.”
–WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA (found at “How To (and How Not To) Write Poetry”
The Joy of Writing
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Read rest of poem at NobelPrize.org
Found at Poets.org
It’s a true story: we were at sea, together at risk,
and he was very poor, a regular fisherman, from
a family of such. He happened to fill the equation
in the geometry of appetite I trace: for even the blind
can see! And so you see it’s not so much about the eye
Read rest of poem at Matt Duckworth Underwater.