Blake Poetry Quotes

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I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man's. I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.
William Blake (Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion)
The glory of Christianity is to conquer by forgiveness.
William Blake
Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed.
William Blake
To see a World in a grain of sand, And a Heaven in a wild flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an hour.
William Blake (Auguries of Innocence)
The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
The lamb misused breeds public strife And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
William Blake
A Robin Redbreast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage. A dove house fill’d with doves and pigeons Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions. A Dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A Horse misus’d upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood. Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fiber from the Brain does tear.
William Blake
How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?
William Blake (Songs of Innocence and of Experience)
It is right it should be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know, Thro' the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.
William Blake (The Complete Poems)
Marginalia Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like who wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird singing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.
Billy Collins (Picnic, Lightning)
But to go to school in a summer morn, O! It drives all joy away; Under a cruel eye outworn, The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay.
William Blake
The Garden of Love I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; So I turn'd to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be: And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds, And binding with briars, my joys & desires.
William Blake (Songs of Innocence and of Experience)
That which can be made Explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.
William Blake (The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)
There is a Moment in each Day that Satan cannot find
William Blake
He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mock'd in age and death. He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. - "Auguries of Innocence
William Blake (The Complete Poems)
I give you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball, It will lead you in at Heaven's gate Built in Jerusalem's wall.
William Blake
To cast aside from Poetry, all that is not Inspiration
William Blake
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please. - "Auguries of Innocence
William Blake (The Complete Poems)
The bounded is loathed by its possessor. The same dull round even of a universe would soon become a mill with complicated wheels.
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
In every cry of every man, In every infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear.
William Blake (The Complete Poems)
London I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
William Blake (Songs of Innocence and of Experience)
God Appears & God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day
William Blake (Auguries of Innocence)
And we are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
William Blake
The soul of sweet delight can never be defiled.
William Blake (The Marriage of Heaven and Hell & Poems)
Each man is haunted until his humanity awakens.
William Blake
All that we saw was owing to your metaphysics.
William Blake (The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)
To create a little flower is the labor of ages.
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
Then what?” “Then you’ll see the world as it is—infinite,” said Jace with a dry smile. “Don’t quote Blake at me.” The smile turned less dry. “I didn’t think you’d recognize it. You don’t strike me as someone who reads a lot of poetry.
Cassandra Clare (City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1))
A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage. A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons Shudders hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul.
William Blake (The Complete Poems)
And it's beyond my energy to explain why I don't think that four-letter word that everyone's so obsessed over and that gets everyone into so much trouble and pretty much makes everyone behave like an ass can live in a place like this. Somewhere during dry cleaning, details, and missed meals, it flakes away and what you're left with is married people with a tolerable affinity for each other. That little four-letter word can exist only in poetry, or movies of 2 to 3 hours in length. Maybe in a mini-series. This place of dull details and irksome obligations is a home only to other four-letter words, which are used much more frequently.
Kendare Blake (Sleepwalk Society)
..slowly I discerned a familiar shift in my concentration. That compulsion that prohibits me from completely surrendering to a work of art, drawing me from the halls of a favored museum to my own drafting table. Pressing me to close Songs of Innocence in order to experience, as Blake, a glimpse of the divine that may also become a poem. That is the decisive power of a singular work:a call to action. And I, time and again, am overcome with the hubris to believe I can answer that call
Patti Smith (Devotion)
Now as to magic. It is surely absurd to hold me “weak” or otherwise because I choose to persist in a study which I decided deliberately four or five years ago to make, next to my poetry, the most important pursuit of my life…If I had not made magic my constant study I could not have written a single word of my Blake book [The Works of William Blake, with Edwin Ellis, 1893], nor would The Countess Kathleen [stage play, 1892] have ever come to exist. The mystical life is the center of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.
W.B. Yeats
our tragedy begins humid. in a humid classroom. with a humid text book. breaking into us. stealing us from ourselves. one poem. at a time. it begins with shakespeare. the hot wash. the cool acid. of dead white men and women. people. each one a storm. crashing. into our young houses. making us islands. easy isolations. until we are so beleaguered and swollen with a definition of poetry that is white skin and not us. that we tuck our scalding. our soreness. behind ourselves and learn poetry. as trauma. as violence. as erasure. another place we do not exist. another form of exile where we should praise. honor. our own starvation. the little bits of langston. phyllis wheatley. and angelou during black history month. are the crumbs. are the minor boats. that give us slight rest. to be waterdrugged into rejecting the nuances of my own bursting extraordinary self. and to have this be called education. to take my name out of my name. out of where my native poetry lives. in me. and replace it with keats. browning. dickson. wolf. joyce. wilde. wolfe. plath. bronte. hemingway. hughes. byron. frost. cummings. kipling. poe. austen. whitman. blake. longfellow. wordsworth. duffy. twain. emerson. yeats. tennyson. auden. thoreau. chaucer. thomas. raliegh. marlowe. burns. shelley. carroll. elliot… (what is the necessity of a black child being this high off of whiteness.) and so. we are here. brown babies. worshipping. feeding. the glutton that is white literature. even after it dies. (years later. the conclusion: shakespeare is relative. white literature is relative. that we are force fed the meat of an animal that our bodies will not recognize. as inherent nutrition. is not relative. is inert.)
Nayyirah Waheed (Nejma)
But Blake's voices returned to dictate revisions.
Donald Hall (Claims for Poetry)
I hate the way we’re getting old, Hate the weary in my soul Let’s not regret the ways it didn’t go
Apollo Blake (Nocturnalisms)
Whether on Ida's shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceas'd; Whether in Heav'n ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea Wand'ring in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry! How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forc'd, the notes are few! - "To the Muses
William Blake (The Complete Poems)
Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody Poor: And Mercy no more could be, If all were as happy as we; And mutual fear brings peace; Till the selfish loves increase. Then Cruelty knits a snare, And spreads his baits with care.
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
I first met Winston Churchill in the early summer of 1906 at a dinner party to which I went as a very young girl. Our hostess was Lady Wemyss and I remember that Arthur Balfour, George Wyndman, Hilaire Belloc and Charles Whibley were among the guests… I found myself sitting next to this young man who seemed to me quite different from any other young man I had ever met. For a long time he seemed sunk in abstraction. Then he appeared to become suddenly aware of my existence. He turned on me a lowering gaze and asked me abruptly how old I was. I replied that I was nineteen. “And I,” he said despairingly, “am thirty-two already. Younger than anyone else who counts, though, “he added, as if to comfort himself. Then savagely: “Curse ruthless time! Curse our mortality. How cruelly short is this allotted span for all we must cram into it!” And he burst forth into an eloquent diatribe on the shortness of human life, the immensity of possible human accomplishment—a theme so well exploited by the poets, prophets, and philosophers of all ages that it might seem difficult to invest it with new and startling significance. Yet for me he did so, in a torrent of magnificent language which appeared to be both effortless and inexhaustible and ended up with the words I shall always remember: “We are all worms. But I do believe that I am a glow worm.” By this time I was convinced of it—and my conviction remained unshaken throughout the years that followed. Later he asked me whether I thought that words had a magic and music quite independent of their meaning. I said I certainly thought so, and I quoted as a classic though familiar instance the first lines that came into my head. Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. His eyes blazed with excitement. “Say that again,” he said, “say it again—it is marvelous!” “But I objected, “You know these lines. You know the ‘Ode to a Nightengale.’ ” He had apparently never read or heard of it before (I must, however, add that next time I met him he had not learned not merely this but all of the odes to Keats by heart—and he recited them quite mercilessly from start to finish, not sparing me a syllable). Finding that he liked poetry, I quoted to him from one of my own favorite poets, Blake. He listened avidly, repeating some lines to himself with varying emphases and stresses, then added meditatively: “I never knew that old Admiral had found so much time to write such good poetry.” I was astounded that he, with his acute susceptibility to words and power of using them, should have left such tracts of English literature entirely unexplored. But however it happened he had lost nothing by it, when he approached books it was “with a hungry, empty mind and with fairly srong jaws, and what I got I *bit*.” And his ear for the beauty of language needed no tuning fork. Until the end of dinner I listened to him spellbound. I can remember thinking: This is what people mean when they talk of seeing stars. That is what I am doing now. I do not to this day know who was on my other side. Good manners, social obligation, duty—all had gone with the wind. I was transfixed, transported into a new element. I knew only that I had seen a great light. I recognized it as the light of genius… I cannot attempt to analyze, still less transmit, the light of genius. But I will try to set down, as I remember them, some of the differences which struck me between him and all the others, young and old, whom I have known. First and foremost he was incalculable. He ran true to no form. There lurked in his every thought and world the ambush of the unexpected. I felt also that the impact of life, ideas and even words upon his mind, was not only vivid and immediate, but direct. Between him and them there was no shock absorber of vicarious thought or precedent gleaned either from books or other minds. His relationship wit
Violet Bonham Carter
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate / Predicts the ruin of the State
William Blake (Auguries of Innocence)
Does anyone have a gun?” The looks I got in response suggested that I’d asked about something profoundly distasteful, like trickle-down economics or the poetry of William Blake.
Kevin Hearne (Tricked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #4))
Blake managed, in phrases of a peremptory simplicity, to reduce humanity to poetry and poetry to Evil.
Georges Bataille (Literature and Evil)
One Power alone makes a Poet: Imagination, the Divine Vision.
William Blake
And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love...
William Blake (Poems of William Blake)
Praise is the practice of Art.
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
The Classics, it is the Classics! & not Goths nor Monks, that Desolate Europe with Wars.
William Blake
O little Cloud," the virgin said, "I charge thee tell to me, Why thou complainest not when in one hour thou fade away: Then we shall seek thee but not find; ah, Thel is like to Thee. I pass away, yet I complain, and no one hears my voice." The Cloud then shew'd his golden head & his bright form emerg'd, Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel.
William Blake (The Book of Thel)
According to Padilla, remembered Amalfitano, all literature could be classified as heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual. Novels, in general, were heterosexual. Poetry, on the other hand, was completely homosexual. Within the vast ocean of poetry he identified various currents: faggots, queers, sissies, freaks, butches, fairies, nymphs, and philenes. But the two major currents were faggots and queers. Walt Whitman, for example, was a faggot poet. Pablo Neruda, a queer. William Blake was definitely a faggot. Octavio Paz was a queer. Borges was a philene, or in other words he might be a faggot one minute and simply asexual the next.
Roberto Bolaño (Woes of the True Policeman)
And did those feet in ancient time, Walk upon Englands mountains green: And was the holy Lamb of God, On Englands pleasant pastures seen! And did the Countenance Divine, Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, Among these dark Satanic Mills?
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
Love seeketh not Itself to please. Nor for itself hath any care; But for another gives its ease. And builds a Heaven in Hells despair. Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to Its delight; Joys in anothers loss of ease. And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.
William Blake (Songs of Innocence & Songs of Experience)
His mother is dead. She was a suicide. Her marriage was terrifying to her. In the center of it she found herself completely alone. During the last year she sent long telegrams to her sister, sometimes quoting poetry, Swinburne, Blake. One day she burned her diaries, a spring day, and walked into the Connecticut River to drown, just like Virginia Woolf or Madame Magritte. She was buried in Boston, her home. I could see the ceremony. Dean is six years old and his sister three. They stand stunned and obedient as the great, glistening coffin is lowered into the ground. Within lies the drowned woman who had given them life and who now gives an example of melancholy and commitment which will stay with them forever. Clods of earth thunder onto the hollow lid and, half-orphan, bearer of his mother’s death which is not yet even real, he begins his life. Much of it you know, at any rate college, the wanderings. Now, at twenty-four, he has come to the time of choice. I know quite well how all that is. And then, I read his letters. His father writes to him in the most beautiful, educated hand, the born hand of a copyist. Admonitions to confront life, to think a little more seriously about this or that. I could have laughed. Words that meant nothing to him. He has already set out on a dazzling voyage which is more like an illness, becoming ever more distant, more legendary. His life will be filled with those daring impulses which cause him to disappear and next be heard of in Dublin, in Veracruz… I am not telling the truth about Dean, I am inventing him. I am creating him out of my own inadequacies, you must always remember that.
James Salter (A Sport and a Pastime)
He is a Londoner, too, in his writings. In his familiar letters he displays a rambling urban vivacity, a tendency to to veer off the point and to muddle his syntax. He had a brilliantly eclectic mind, picking up words and images while at the same time forging them in new and unexpected combinations. He conceived several ideas all at once, and sometimes forgot to separate them into their component parts. This was true of his lectures, too, in which brilliant perceptions were scattered in a wilderness of words. As he wrote on another occasion, "The lake babbled not less, and the wind murmured not, nor the little fishes leaped for joy that their tormentor was not." This strangely contorted and convoluted style also characterizes his verses, most of which were appended as commentaries upon his paintings. Like Blake, whose prophetic books bring words and images in exalted combination, Turner wished to make a complete statement. Like Blake, he seemed to consider the poet's role as being in part prophetic. His was a voice calling in the wilderness, and, perhaps secretly, he had an elevated sense of his status and his vocation. And like Blake, too, he was often considered to be mad. He lacked, however, the poetic genius of Blake - compensated perhaps by the fact that by general agreement he is the greater artist.
Peter Ackroyd (Turner)
I was looking at the sensoriums of heroes. I was sensing through the eyes and nose of Shelley and John Webster, and using the hearing and touch of Ginsberg and Duncan and Kerouac–– and the jazz lucidity of Creeley, and the Doug fir of Snyder, and the almost mystical, physical perceptions of D.H. Lawrence and of Olson himself. I was convinced that poetry was about, by, and from, the meat, that poetry was the product of flesh brushing itself against experience. We are seekers moving in the Tathagata brushing ourselves against the universe of the real, solid illusions. It is by our touches that we become ourselves –– as our ancestors became us and as we became our maturing, sharpening, brightening selves.
Michael McClure (Scratching the Beat Surface: Essays on New Vision from Blake to Kerouac)
I will not endure this thing! I alone withstand to death, This outrage! Ah me! how sick & pale you all stand round me! Ah me! pitiable ones! do you also go the deaths vale? All you my Friends & Brothers! all you my beloved Companions! Have you also caught the infection of Sin & stern Repentance? I see Disease arise upon you! yet speak to me and give Me some comfort: why do you all stand silent? I alone Remain in permanent strength.
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
The other gift — a book of poems, called, "The Cowardly Morning" — Waner put on Corinne's desk at the office, with a note saying, "This man is Coleridge and Blake and Rilke all in one, and more." She didn't pick up the book again until she was in bed, late that night. [...] The first poem was the title poem. This time Corinne read it through aloud. But still she didn't hear it. She read it through a third time, and heard some of it. She read it through a fourth time, and heard all of it. It was the poem containing the lines: 'Not wasteland, but a great inverted forest with all foliage underground.' As though it might be best to look immediately for shelter, Corinne had to put the book down. At any moment the apartment building seemed liable to lose its balance and topple across Fifth Avenue into Central Park. She waited. Gradually the deluge of truth and beauty abated. - The Inverted Forest (1947)
J.D. Salinger (The Complete Uncollected Stories)
...slowly I discerned a familiar shift in my concentration. That compulsion that prohibits me from completely surrendering to a work of art, drawing me from the halls of a favored museum to my own drafting table. Pressing me to close Songs of Innocence in order to experience, as blake, a glimpse of the divine that may also become a poem. That is the decisive power of a singular work:a call to action. And I, time and again, am overcome with the hubris to believe I can answer that call.
Patti Smith (Devotion)
And Urizen gave life & sense by his immortal power To all his Engines of deceit that linked chains might run Thro ranks of war spontaneous & that hooks & boring screws Might act according to their forms by innate cruelty He also formed harsh instruments of sound To grate the soul into destruction or to inflame with fury The spirits of life to pervert all the faculties of sense Into their own destruction if perhaps he might avert His own despair even at the cost of every thing that breaths
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm: Besides I can tell where I am use'd well, Such usage in heaven will never do well. But if at Church they would give us some Ale. And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale: We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day: Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray. Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing. And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring: And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch And God like a father rejoicing to see. His children as pleasant and happy as he: Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.
William Blake (Songs of Innocence and of Experience)
In tortures of dire coldness now a Lake of waters deep Sweeps over thee freezing to solid still thou sitst closd up In that transparent rock as if in joy of thy bright prison Till overburdend with its own weight drawn out thro immensity With a crash breaking across the horrible mass comes down Thundring & hail & frozen iron haild from the Element Rends thy white hair yet thou dost fixd obdurate brooding sit Writing thy books. Anon a cloud filld with a waste of snows Covers thee still obdurate still resolvd & writing still Tho rocks roll oer thee tho floods pour tho winds black as the Sea Cut thee in gashes tho the blood pours down around thy ankles Freezing thy feet to the hard rock still thy pen obdurate Traces the wonders of Futurity in horrible fear of the future
William Blake (The Complete Poetry and Prose)
... While much recent historicist criticism has assumed early nineteenth-century readers attuned to subtle ideological nuances in poetry, actual responses from readers often come closer to clulessness. ... It is no surprise that no one understood Blake, but other poets fared not much better. ... Coleridge's 'Christabel' was 'the standing enigma which puzzles the curiosity of literary circles. What is it all about?', while another reviewer asked about Shelley, 'What, in the name of wonder on one side, and of common sense on the other, is the meaning of this metaphysical rhapsody about the unbinding of Prometheus?'. Even Keats was condemned for 'his frequent obscurity and confusion of language' and his 'unintelligible quaintness'. Byron, never to be outdone, boasted in 'Don Juan' that not only did he not understand many of his fellow poets, he did not understand himself either: 'I don't pretend that I quite understand / My own meaning when I would be very fine.' ...
Andrew Elfenbein (Romanticism and the Rise of English)
Spring Azures In spring the blue azures bow down at the edges of shallow puddles to drink the black rain water. Then they rise and float away into the fields. Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy, and all the tricks my body knows-- the opposable thumbs, the kneecaps, and the mind clicking and clicking- don't seem enough te carry me thorugh this world and I think: how I would like to have wings- blue ones- ribbons of flame. How I would like to open them, and rise from the black rain water. And then I think of Blake, in the dirt and sweat of London- a boy staring through the window, when God came fluttering up. Of course, he screamed, seeing the bobbin of God's blue body leaning on the sill, and the thousand-faceted eyes. Well, who knows. Who knows what hung, fluttering, at the window between him and the darkness. Anyway, Blake the hosier's son stood up and turned away from the sooty sill and the dark city- turned away forever from the factories, the personal strivings, to a life of imagination.
Mary Oliver
William Blake admired the work of William Wordsworth but is said to have once been so mad at him over a theological point in a poem that he contracted a bowel complaint.
Lisa R. Spaar (The Hide-and-Seek Muse: Annotation of Contemporary Poetry)
Or reading poetry. Now there was a job that should exist. To spend one’s days in the company of Blake and Dickinson, Yeats and Hopkins, Auden and Milton. To fill one’s mind with their wisdom, the music of their words. Today
Anne D. LeClaire (The Halo Effect)
The Blakean reading of the birth of Adam (order or really Jesus) is that He does not want to be immortalised by the death of God. For Blake it is only God (in ibn al arabi’s sense of the word god) that can truly die man is immortal thus he resists creation through (pain) and the devil understood that. Jesus for Blake is born on the cross. It’s in that moment where he utters “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?  Why are you so far away when I groan for help?” The reading that god for a moment through Jesus lost faith in hisself and consequently the humanity through the experience of unbearable suffering and pain is not the Jesus’s moment on cross but the opposite for Blake Jesus on the cross was about his moment of immortality, that he feels betrayed by his immortality as he was promised death it’s truly the death drive that speaks in Jesus because Jesus at that moment became the son of man rather than son of God in a truly abstract yet literal sense. Jesus was promised death but rather he received immortality which is why in Quran Jesus is not resurrected on the third day but taken above among immortals to come back later. He never dies on the cross and this repetition for Jesus is vulgar. This is the true jouissance Jesus really says on the cross that He wants to suffer more to self sacrifice for his desire of death for his pleasure but the reason he says that oh lord why have you abandoned me is when he finally sees his immortality.
Syed Buali Gillani
In high school, I remember reading poetry by John Keats, Percy Shelley, Pablo Neruda, and William Blake and not understanding their romantic odes and verse. But right now, in this moment, I was a poet, and I think I finally understood all the words and lines they’d written. Tonight the world was full of poetry.
Kayla Cunningham (Fated to Love You (Chasing the Comet Book 1))
Do you know the famous William Blake poem, Mr Lomax?' Martin Lomax shakes his head. He once killed a poet, but that's as far as he and poetry go.
Richard Osman (The Man Who Died Twice (Thursday Murder Club, #2))
In this they have the support of Blake, a man so sensitive to any trace of “Natural Religion” that he is said to have blamed some verses of Wordsworth’s for a bowel complaint which almost killed him.
Geoffrey H. Hartman (Wordsworth’s Poetry 1787-1814)
The knowledge Raine spoke of and sought in her ‘real poets’ formed what she called ‘the learning of the imagination’, a teaching that was not about the imagination but was the imagination itself. Its curriculum was made up of the symbols, metaphors and images that informed her favourite poetry – with Owen Barfield she shared a love of the Romantics – and which constituted much of the ‘hollowed out’ iconography that the modern soul misunderstood and often did its best to undermine. ‘Tradition,’ she wrote in her major work on Blake, ‘is the record of imaginative experience’. ‘Traditional metaphysics’ – that of Pythagoras, Plato and Plotinus – ‘is neither vague, personal or arbitrary’, as the learned dons at Cambridge had tried to convince her it was. ‘It is the recorded history of imaginative thought and has … an accompanying language of symbol and myth’.42 This is Henry Corbin’s mundus imaginalis, ‘a very precise order of reality, which corresponds to a precise mode of perception’: the true imagination.
Gary Lachman (Lost Knowledge of the Imagination)
The knowledge Raine spoke of and sought in her ‘real poets’ formed what she called ‘the learning of the imagination’, a teaching that was not about the imagination but was the imagination itself. Its curriculum was made up of the symbols, metaphors and images that informed her favourite poetry – with Owen Barfield she shared a love of the Romantics – and which constituted much of the ‘hollowed out’ iconography that the modern soul misunderstood and often did its best to undermine. ‘Tradition,’ she wrote in her major work on Blake, ‘is the record of imaginative experience’. ‘Traditional metaphysics’ – that of Pythagoras, Plato and Plotinus – ‘is neither vague, personal or arbitrary’, as the learned dons at Cambridge had tried to convince her it was. ‘It is the recorded history of imaginative thought and has … an accompanying language of symbol and myth’.42 This is Henry Corbin’s mundus imaginalis, ‘a very precise order of reality, which corresponds to a precise mode of perception’: the true imagination
Gary Lachman (Lost Knowledge of the Imagination)
Blake When I remember how his spirits throve Amid dark city streets he did not see Because his eyes were veiled with poetry And at his heart the Prophets wings were wove, When I recall the squalor of his days And then remember what rare fire was spent When amid quenchless words he died, I praise Whatever Gods we’re his, in wonderment
Mervyn Peake (Peake's Progress: Selected Writings and Drawings)
I am in the path of Blake, but so far behind him that only the wings on his heels are in sight. I have been writing since I was a very little boy, and have always been struggling with the same things, with the idea of poetry as a thing entirely removed from such accomplishments as 'word-painting', and the setting down of delicate but usual emotions in a few wellchosen words. There must be no compromise; there is always only the right word: use it, despite its foul or merely ludicrous associations… Poetry finds its own forms; form should never be superimposed; the structure should rise out of the words and the expression of them.
Dylan Thomas (Collected Poems)
(in The Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews, 1747) argues that the Bible can fruitfully be approached as Hebrew poetry. He points out that the words for poet and prophet are the same in Hebrew; he treats the Old Testament prophets as the poets of their era—and thus made it possible for modern poets to claim the role of prophet for their era. The concept of the modern poet-prophet runs from Lowth to Blake, to Herder, and to Whitman. If we can approach Homeric poetry as Greek religion and Hebrew religion as Jewish poetry, the result is, on one side, skepticism about the historical reliability of either text, but on the other side, the elevation of the poet as the prophet of the present age, the truth teller, the gospel maker, the primary witness for his time and place.
Robert D. Richardson Jr. (Emerson: The Mind on Fire)
You have a moment in the day, as Blake said, that Satan (the strategic mind, worried about being ‘productive’) cannot find.
David Whyte (Midlife and the Great Unknown: Finding Courage and Clarity Through Poetry)
2 - Listen In Eavesdropping, Seriously? Acting like you’re the main character, You have nothing to go on, Grow the fuck up.
Apollo Blake (Nocturnalisms)
Certainly imagery can be gleaned from the industrial world — what do Blake's "dark Satanic Mills," for example, owe to the natural world? The city can be, and has been, the source of firm poetic description, and imagery too. But the natural world is the old river that runs through everything, and I think poets will forever fish along its shores.
Mary Oliver (A Poetry Handbook)
The daily routine of most adults is so heavy and artificial that we are closed off to much of the world. We have to do this in order to get our work done. I think one purpose of art is to get us out of those routines. When we hear music or poetry or stories, the world opens up again. We’re drawn in — or out — and the windows of our perception are cleansed, as William Blake said. The same thing can happen when we’re around young children or adults who have unlearned those habits of shutting the world out.
Ursula K. Le Guin
We then discover that we have no word, corresponding to “poem” in poetry or “play” in drama, to describe a work of literary art. It is all very well for Blake to say that to generalize is to be an idiot, but when we find ourselves in the cultural situation of savages who have words for ash and willow and no word for tree, we wonder if there is not such a thing as being too deficient in the capacity to generalize.
Northrop Frye (Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton Classics Book 70))
It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity
William Blake (The Four Zoas: The Torments of Love and Jealousy in the Death and Judgment of Albion the Ancient Man)