Karl Shapiro Quotes
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Writing, I crushed an insect with my nail And thought nothing at all. A bit of wing Caught my eye then, a gossamer so frail And exquisite, I saw in it a thing That scorned the grossness of the thing I wrote. It hung upon my finger like a sting.
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To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.
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A leg I noticed next, fine as a mote, 'And on this frail eyelash he walked,' I said, 'And climbed and walked like any mountain-goat.'
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But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.
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In the tight belly of the dead, Burrow with hungry head, And inlay maggots like a jewel.
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As a third generation American I grew up with the obsessive idea of personal liberty which engrosses all Americans except the oldest and richest families.
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Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.
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Lastly, his tomb shall list and founder in the troughs of grass. And none shall speak his name.
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Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.
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I feel that after working a long time, I’ve really learned how to do what I do. I enjoy it. I don’t think there’s anything more satisfying than turning out a good stanza or a good piece of prose. And when you’re satisfied enough, you want to show it to other people. That’s called publication.
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My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.
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The doctor punched my vein, the captain called me Cain, upon my belly sat the sow of fear.
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The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?
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The good poet sticks to his real loves, those within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.
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Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?
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The public has an unusual relationship to the poet: It doesn't even know that he is there.
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Then in my heart a fear Cried out, 'A life - why, beautiful, why dead!' It was a mite that held itself most dear, So small I could have drowned it with a tear.
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Influence is strange. Because one can be influenced powerfully in every way but technique. For instance, I would think Walt Whitman probably had more influence on my whole poetic thinking than anybody, but I never dreamed of trying to write in the Whitman manner.