I do not suppose that anyone not a poet can realize the agony of creating a poem. Every nerve, even every muscle, seems strained to the breaking point. The poem will not be denied; to refuse to write it would be a greater torture. It tears its way out of the brain, splintering and breaking its passage, and leaves that organ in the state of a jelly-fish when the task is done.

Amy Lowell

Categorized in : Writing Creating Agony

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

expression men art

All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can dr... by Amy Lowell

All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.

reading dream book

Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.

mystery love-is facts

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

girlfriend wine love

Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its pain... by Amy Lowell

Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.

butterfly flower wings

Poets are always the advance guard of literature; the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.

recognition poet literature

This is America, This vast, confused beauty, This staring, restless speed of loveliness, Mighty, overwhelming, crude, of all forms, Making grandeur out of profusion, Afraid of no incongruities, Sublime in its audacity, Bizarre breaker of moulds.

confused sublime america

Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple, by Amy Lowell

Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple,

flower moon spring

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls. by Amy Lowell

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

beaks skulls hate

Witches are moon-birds, by Amy Lowell

Witches are moon-birds,

beautiful inspirational life

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of o... by Amy Lowell

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.

flower heart life

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.

missing-someone tired missing-you

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

balance soul comfort

Great emotion always tends to become rhythmic, and out of that tendency the forms of art have been evolved. Art becomes artificial only when the forms take precedence over the emotion.

tendencies emotion art

Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity. by Amy Lowell

Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.

soul humanity fiction

Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.

lines theory art

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in lonel... by Amy Lowell

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.

being-lonely loneliness moon

Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing... by Amy Lowell

Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.

bending flower running

When trying to explain anything, I usually find that the Bible, that great collection of magnificent and varied poetry, has said it before in the best possible way.

said trying way

My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them. Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.

scent flower beautiful