Louise Bogan Famous Quotes
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At midnight tears
Run into your ears.
The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another.
The soprano studies for seven years in order to be able to open her mouth and make loud sounds for three hours on end.
In a time lacking in truth and certainty and filled with anguish and despair, no woman should be shamefaced in attempting to give back to the world, through her work, a portion of its lost heart.
Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.
All art, in spite of the struggles of some critics to prove otherwise, is based on emotion and projects emotion.
Slipping in blood, by his own hand, through pride,
Hamlet, Othello, Coriolanus fall.
Upon his bed, however, Shakespeare die,
Having endured them all.
I don't like quintessential certitude.
Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.
I'll lie here and learn
How, over their ground,
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound.
In the country whereto I go
I shall not see the face of my friend
Nor her hair the color of sunburnt grasses;
Together we shall not find
The land on whose hills bends the new moon
In air traversed of birds.
What have I thought of love?
I have said, "It is beauty and sorrow."
I have thought that it would bring me lost delights, and splendor
As a wind out of old time ...
But there is only the evening here,
And the sound of willows
Now and again dipping their long oval leaves in the water.
from "Betrothed
The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.
Leave-Taking"
I do not know where either of us can turn
Just at first, waking from the sleep of each other.
I do not know how we can bear
The river struck by the gold plummet of the moon,
Or many trees shaken together in the darkness.
We shall wish not to be alone
And that love were not dispersed and set free -
Though you defeat me,
And I be heavy upon you.
But like earth heaped over the heart
Is love grown perfect.
Like a shell over the beat of life
Is love perfect to the last.
So let it be the same
Whether we turn to the dark or to the kiss of another;
Let us know this for leavetaking,
That I may not be heavy upon you,
That you may blind me no more.
Originally published in Poetry, August 1922.
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Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side,
And madness chooses out my voice again,
Again.
I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.
No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.
Stupidity always accompanies evil. Or evil, stupidity.
Song for the Last Act
Now that I have your face by heart, I look
Less at its features than its darkening frame
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd's crook.
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.
Now that I have your face by heart, I look.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read
In the black chords upon a dulling page
Music that is not meant for music's cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.
The staves are shuttled over with a stark
Unprinted silence. In a double dream
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.
The beat's too swift. The notes shift in the dark.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening
Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.
Up from the bronze, I saw Water without a flaw Rush to its rest in air Reach to its rest, and fall.
Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.
But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.
O fortunate bride, who never again will become elated after
childbirth!
O lucky older wife, who has been cured of feeling unwanted!
Perhaps this very instant is your time.
O remember
In your narrowing dark hours
That more things move
Than blood in the heart.
But is there any reason to believe that a woman's spiritual fibre is less sturdy than a man's? Is it not possible for a woman to come to terms with herself if not with the world; to withdraw more and more, as time goes on, her own personality from her productions; to stop childish fears of death and eschew charming rebellions against facts?
Unaccustomed sense of peace did not depend on ... 'the whim of any fallible creature, or ... economic security, or the weather. I don't know where it comes from. Jung states that such serenity is always a miracle ... I am so glad that the therapists of my maturity and the saints of my childhood agree on one thing.
It is almost impossible for the poetess, once laurelled, to take off the crown for good or to reject values and taste of those who tender it.
The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?
It is not possible, for a poet, writing in any language, to protect himself from the tragic elements in human life ... [ellipsis in source] Illness, old age, and death
subjects as ancient as humanity
these are the subjects that the poet must speak of very nearly from the first moment that he begins to speak.
True revolutions in art restore more than they destroy.
It is through the acceptance of a variety of aethetic and intellectual points of view that a culture is given breadth and density.
The women rest their tired half-healed hearts; they are almost
well.
Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.
You need some place to work in. That's the door half open.
The measured blood beats out the year's delay.
I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering; surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy!
Politics are nothing but sand and gravel: it is art and life that feed us until we die. Everything else is ambition, hysteria or hatred.
Tea instead of gin will warm the heart.
What we suffer, what we endure, what we muff, what we kill, what we miss, what we are guilty of, is done by us, as individuals, in private.