Theodore roethke quotes

In the kingdom of bang and blab.

God bless the roots! Body and soul are one.

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.

Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

When I go mad, I call my friends by phone: I am afraid they might think they're alone.

My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

Teach as an old fishing guide takes out a beginner.

My truths are all foreknown,This anguish self-revealed.I'm naked to the bone,With nakedness my shield.

(I measure time by how a body sways.)

Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.

I have gone into the waste lonely places

What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?

The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.

Long live the weeds that overwhelm My narrow vegetable realm! The bitter rock, the barren soil That force the son of man to toil; All things unholy, marred by curse, The ugly of the universe.

Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.

I lose and find myself in the long water. I am gathered together once more.

The poet: would rather eat a heart than a hambone.

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.

What falls away is always. And is near.

Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.

I learn by going where I have to go.

How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.

Civilization is over-rated, but there isn't much else.

The living all assemble! What's the cue?-- Do what the clumsy partner wants to do!

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.

The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.

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.

You must believe: a poem is a holy thing - a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.

I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.

A mind too active is no mind at all.

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.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

Being, not doing, is my first joy.

Wake the happy words.

The soul has many motions, body one.

May my silences become more accurate.

Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.

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.

To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.

Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.

O Lord, may I never want to look good. O Jesus, may I always read it all: out loud and the very way it should be. May I never look at the other findings until I have come to my own true conclusions: May I care for the least of the young: and become aware of the one poem that each may have written; may I be aware of what each thing is, delighted with form, and wary of the false comparison; may I never use the word "brilliant."

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

Too much reality can be a dazzle, a surfeit;Too close immediacy an exhaustion

What we need is more people who specialize in the impossible.

Who rise from flesh to spirit know the fall: The word outleaps the world, and light is all.

And soon a branch, part of a hidden scene,The leafy mind, that long was tightly furled,Will turn its private substance into green,And young shoots spread upon our inner world.

I came to love, I came into my own.

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.

Time marks us while we are marking time.

In a dark time, the eye begins to see / I meet my shadow in the deepening shade...Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.

I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.

A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.

The darkness has it's own light.

What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?

The light comes brighter from the east; the cawOf restive crows is sharper on the ear.

And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.

A too explicit elucidation in education destroys much of the pleasure of learning. There should be room for sly hinters, masters of suggestion.

I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.

Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.

In a dark time, the mind begins to see.

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.

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.

I bleed my bones, their marrow to bestowUpon that God who knows what I would know.

So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.

In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write.

The mind enters itself, and God the mind, And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.

You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me, so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go. This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go.

Art is our defense against hysteria and death.

Let others probe the mystery if they can.Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will -The right thing happens to the happy man.

And I rejoiced in being what I was.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?

By daily dying, I have come to be.

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.

Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?

The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow.

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.

What is desire?-- The impulse to make someone else complete? That woman would set sodden straw on fire.

I can't go on flying apart just for those who want the benefit of a few verbal kicks. My God, do you know what poems like that cost? They're not written vicariously: they come out of actual suffering, real madness.

The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.

The body and the soul know how to play In that dark world where gods have lost their way.

Love begets love. This torment is my joy.

I have come to a still, but not a deep center, A point outside the glittering current; My eyes stare at the bottom of a river, At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains, My mind moves in more than one place, In a country half-land, half-water. I am renewed by death, thought of my death, The dry scent of a dying garden in September, The wind fanning the ash of a low fire. What I love is near at hand, Always, in earth and air.

What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?

Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.

All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain with its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood upon a mountain slope, A scene beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree: The pure serene of memory of one man,- A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.

Be sure that whatever you are is you.

All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.

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.

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.

Live in a perpetual great astonishment.

I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.

How terrible the need for God.

Love is not love until love's vulnerable.