W.H. Auden

When words lose their meaning, physical force takes over.

no poet can know what his poem is going to be like until he has written it.

In most poetic expressions of patriotism, it is impossible to distinguish what is one of the greatest human virtues from the worst human vice, collective egotism.

The element of craftsmanship in poetry is obscured by the fact that all men are taught to speak and most to read and write, while very few men are taught to draw or paint or write music.

Base words are uttered only by the baseAnd can for such at once be understood;But noble platitudes _ ah, there's a caseWhere the most careful scrutiny is neededTo tell a voice that's genuinely goodFrom one that's base but merely has succeeded.

After Portia has trapped Shylock through his own insistence upon the letter of the law of Contract, she produces another law by which any alien who conspires against the life of a Venetian citizen forfeits his goods and places his life at the Doge__ mercy. [_] Shakespeare, it seems to me, was willing to introduce what is an absurd implausibility for the sake of an effect which he could not secure without it: at the last moment when, through his conduct, Shylock has destroyed any sympathy we may have felt for him earlier, we are reminded that, irrespective of his personal character, his status is one of inferiority. A Jew is not regarded, even in law, as a brother.

Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs.

The Ogre does what ogres can,Deeds quite impossible for Man,But one prize is beyond his reach:The Ogre cannot master speech.About a subjugated plain,Among it's desperate and slain,The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,While drivel gushes from his lips.

Say this city has ten million souls,Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:Yet there__ no place for us, my dear, yet there__ no place for us.

Clear, unscalable, aheadRise the Mountains of Instead,From whose cold, cascading streamsNone may drink except in dreams.

All the rest is silenceOn the other side of the wall;And the silence ripeness,And the ripeness all.

And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom.

Poetry makes nothing happen.

Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.

O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start;You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.

I will love you forever" swears the poet. I find this easy to swear too. "I will love you at 4:15 pm next Tuesday" - Is that still as easy?

Follow, poet, follow rightTo the bottom of the night,With your unconstraining voiceStill persuade us to rejoice;With the farming of a verseMake a vineyard of the curse,Sing of human unsuccessIn a rapture of distress;In the deserts of the heartLet the healing fountain start,In the prison of his daysTeach the free man how to praise.

Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can; all of them make me laugh.