Whitman has more listings than an anal retentive suburbanite.
We can enter a poem in an almost limitless number of ways–through its imagery, its social underpinnings, its meaning, its rhythms, its sentence structure, its line breaks.
I do not hate spoken word. I hate ham acting.
Waits has a thing for moons, and has been working on lyrical variations of this one metaphor for gong on 40 years.
We have seven hues, a silver gyre, seven swords of vision, and a prophet’s flaming tyre. Beats me as to what Campbell means, but almost all lyrical poems contain such moments of high gibberish.
All metaphors are, eventually, false, inaccurate, distortians of reality. Reality itself is a distortion. Frost–the conservative–said as much.
Metaphors are committed to falsehood and inexactness for the sake of a possibility more vital than precision.
Russian novelists exhausted every eye color in the 19th century. Pop song writers are the only people who can make a big deal out of eyes anymore.