Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter.
Robert HassRead
When I was younger, I was so crazy about poetry that I didn't notice who was noticing. It seemed to me so tremendous and large.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the deep passion for poetry in youth, often blinding one to the appreciation from others.
In this quote, Robert Hass reminisces about his youthful obsession with poetry, highlighting how his intense engagement with the art form overshadowed any awareness of the admiration he received from those around him. It suggests that true passion can sometimes consume one's focus to the point of overlooking external validation and appreciation, emphasizing the significance of genuine artistic expression over seeking approval.
In practice
In a speech about creative pursuits, one might quote this to emphasize the importance of passion over external validation.
Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter.
Sometimes from this hillside just after sunset The rim of the sky takes on a tinge Of the palest green, like the flesh of a cucumber When you peel it carefully.
Take the time to write. You can do your life's work in half an hour a day.
I think that the job of poetry, its political job, is to refresh the idea of justice, which is going dead in us all the time.
There are moments when the body is as numinous as words, days that are the good flesh continuing. Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings, saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
Writing is an incessant process of discovery.
I feel blessed and humbled that people have loved my music. Nothing would be possible without their acceptance.
We think of photography as pictures. And it is. But I think of photography as ideas. And do the pictures sustain your ideas or are they just good pictures? I want to have an experience in the world that is a deepening experience, that makes me feel alive and awake and conscious.
To express a marriage of two complementary colors, their mingling and their opposition, the mysterious vibrations of kindred tones.
The Iron Man came to the top of the cliff. How far had he walked? Nobody knows. Where did he come from? Nobody knows. How was he made? Nobody knows. Taller than a house the Iron Man stood at the top of the cliff, at the very brink, in the darkness.
Flowers construct the most charming geometries: circles like the sun, ovals, cones, curlicues and a variety of triangular eccentricities, which when viewed with the eye of a magnifying glass seem a Lilliputian frieze of psychedelic silhouettes.
What we [writers] do might be done in solitude and with great desperation, but it tends to produce exactly the opposite. It tends to produce community and in many people hope and joy.
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