What we need is more people who specialize in the impossible.— Theodore Roethke
The most lust Theodore Roethke quotes to get the best of your day
I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,By pulling off flesh from the living planet;As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.
Beginnings start without shade,Thinner than minnows.
The live grass whirls with the sun,Feet run over the simple stones,There's time enough.Behold, in the lout's eye, love.
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.
Love is not love until love's vulnerable.
How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
May my silences become more accurate.
I have gone into the waste lonely places
Deep in their roots all flowers keep the light.
Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.
In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write.
Too much reality can be a dazzle, a surfeit;Too close immediacy an exhaustion
Live in a perpetual great astonishment.
I came where the river Ran over stones;
My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.
I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.
What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?
Being, not doing, is my first joy.
My truths are all foreknown,This anguish self-revealed.
I'm naked to the bone,With nakedness my shield.
So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.
But when I breath with the birds, The spirit of wrath becomes the spirit of blessings, And the dead begin from their dark to sing in my sleep.
A mind too active is no mind at all.
I'm sure I've been a toad, one time or another.
With bats, weasels, worms...I rejoice in the kinship. Even the caterpillar I can love, and the various vermin.
What is madness but nobility of soul. At odds with circumstance?
Love begets love. This torment is my joy.
God bless the roots! Body and soul are one.
In a dark time, the eye begins to see.
Time marks us while we are marking time.
Death was not. I lived in a simple drowse:Hands and hair moved through a dream of wakening blossoms.Rain sweetened the cave and the dove still called;The flowers leaned on themselves, the flowers in hollows;And love, love sang toward.
Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.
And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
A terrible violence of creation,A flash into the burning heart of the abominable;Yet if we wait, unafraid, beyond the fearful instant,The burning lake turns into a forest pool,The fire subsides into rings of water,A sunlit silence.
Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.
I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water.
A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.
The indignity of it!- With everything blooming above me, Lilies, pale-pink cyclamen, roses, Whole fields lovely and inviolate,- Me down in the fetor of weeds, Crawling on all fours, Alive, in a slippery grave.
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.
To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.
And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.
You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind, And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.
In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.
The light comes brighter from the east; the cawOf restive crows is sharper on the ear.
Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.
Wake the happy words.
Let others probe the mystery if they can.
Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will -The right thing happens to the happy man.
What's madness but nobility of soul At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire! I know the purity of pure despair, My shadow pinned against a sweating wall, That place among the rocks--is it a cave, Or winding path? The edge is what I have........ ....... Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire. My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly, Keeps buzzing at the sill. ~From "The Waking" by Theodore Roethke