In any man who dies there dies with him, his first snow and kiss and fight ... Not people die but worlds die in them.
|
In any man who dies there dies with him, his first snow and kiss and fight. Not people die but worlds die in them.
|
I do not like poems that resemble hay compressed into a geometrically perfect cube. I like it when the hay, unkempt, uncombed, with dry berries mixed in it, thrown together gaily and freely, bounces along atop some truck-and more, if there are some lovely and healthy lasses atop the hay-and better yet if the branches catch at the hay, and some of it tumbles to the road.
|
He who is conceived in a cage, yearns for the cage.
|
A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.
|
Everything I do, I do on the principle of Russian borscht. You can throw everything into it-beets, carrots, cabbage, onions, everything you want. What's important is the result, the taste of the borscht.
|
A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else can be only a footnote.
|
Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers.
|
In general, in poetry and literature, I am among those people who believe that too much is indispensable.
|
In Russia all tyrants believe poets to be their worst enemies.
|