James Dickey Quotes
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He can't imagine the result of the mission because he never saw it.
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A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning.
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To be precise and reckless: that is the consummation devoutly to be wished.
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These hunt, as they have doneBut with claws and teeth grown perfect,More deadly than they can believe.
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With the plane nowhere and her body taking by the throatThe undying cry of the void falling living beginning to be somethingThat no one has ever been and lived through screaming without enough air.
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To say that its wrong to feel this way is not the point; you do feel it. All you see is a flash of fire and, depending on your altitude, you don't even see that sometimes.
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I want you to hear a new version of Dueling Banjos. Anyone else is welcome.
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I want a fever, in poetry: a fever, and tranquillity.
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It was something like loveFrom another world that seized herFrom behind, and she gave, not lifting her headOut of dew, without ever looking, her bestSelf to that great need.
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So much destruction in modern war takes place miles and miles away from the source of the destruction, the human being who has caused it.
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To have guilt you've got to earn guilt, but sometimes when you earn it, you don't feel the guilt you ought to have. And that's what The Firebombing is about.
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The New York Quarterly is an amazing, intelligent, crazy, creative, strange, and indispensable magazine.
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She was the Judy Garland of American poetry.
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She is watching her country lose its evoked master shape watching it loseAnd gain get back its houses and peoples watching it bring upIts local lights single homes lamps on barn roofs.
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There ain't nothin' to dyin', really. You just get tired. You kind of drift away.
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I have just come down from my father.Higher and higher he liesAbove me in a blue lightShed by a tinted window.
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Detachment produces a peculiar state of mind. Maybe that's the worst sentence of all, to be deprived of feeling what a human being ought to be entitled to feel.
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William Packard surely must be one of the great editors of our time.
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Dust fanned in scraped puffs from the earthBetween his arms, and blood turned his face inside out,To demonstrate its supplenessOf veins, as he perfected his role.
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I saw for a blazing momentThe great grassy world from both sides,Man and beast in the round of their need.
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Here they are. The soft eyes open.If they have lived in a woodIt is a wood.If they have lived on plainsIt is grass rollingUnder their feet forever.
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The true feeling of sex is that of a deep intimacy, but above all of a deep complicity.
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Those that are huntedKnow this as their life,Their reward: to walkUnder such trees in full knowledgeOf what is in glory above them,And to feel no fear.
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I think Ginsberg has done more harm to the craft that I honor and live by than anybody else by reducing it to a kind of mean that enables the most dubious practitioners to claim they are poets because they think, If the kind of thing Ginsberg does is poetry, I can do that.