People have written a lot of touchy-feely pieces on this subject but I thought I’d get right to the heart of the matter
I bought a copy of Gertrude Stein’s picture book, The World is Round, at an interesting book store.
I’m still getting over the fact that I just said “Gertrude Stein” and “picture book” in the same sentence.
Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:
silence of paintings. You, language where all language
ends. You, time
standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.
Feelings for whom? O you the transformation
of feelings into what? - : into audible landscape.
You stranger: music. You,…
There’s actually an odd correlation between these ideas: poetry is either inadequate, even immoral, in the face of human suffering, or it’s unprofitable, hence useless. Either way, poets are advised to hang our heads or fold our tents. Yet in fact, throughout the world, transfusions of poetic language can and do quite literally keep bodies and souls together—and more.
from A Human Eye, Adrienne Rich