at the heart of things

The image is the essential poem at the heart of things.

—C.G. Jung

more primitive than prose

Poetry is more primitive than prose. It existed before prose and will exist afterward, it is not domesticated, it is wilder and more natural. It belongs out-doors, it has tides as nature has; while prose is a cultured interior thing, prose is of the house, where lamplight abolishes even the tides of day and night, and human caprice rules. The brain can make prose; the whole man, brain and nerves, muscles and entrails, organs of sense and of generation, makes poetry and responds to poetry.

—Robinson Jeffers, "Preface" (June 1922)

best word order

I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, 'prose = words in their best order; — poetry = the best words in the best order'

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Specimens of the Table Talk of the Late Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Volume 1 (1885), collected by Henry Nelson Coleridge.

bar talk

It appears from many rejections that I do not write poetry at all. Or as a dear friend told me the other day: "You do not understand the true meaning of poetry. You are not lyrical. You do not sing! You write bar talk. The type of thing you write I can hear in a bar on any day."

—Charles Bukowski, in a letter to Jon Webb, one of his early publishers.

untruthful town

The poem is always your hometown, but you have a better chance of finding it in another. The reason for that, I believe, is that the stable set of knowns that the poem needs to anchor on is less stable at home than in the town you’ve just seen for the first time. At home, not only do you know that the movie house wasn’t always there, or that the grocer is a newcomer who took over after the former grocer committed suicide, you have complicated emotional responses that defy sorting out. With the strange town, you can assume all knowns are stable, and you owe the details nothing emotionally…Though you have never seen it before, it must be a town you’ve lived in all your life. You must take emotional possession of the town and so the town must be one that, for personal reasons I can’t understand, you feel is your town. In some mysterious way that you need not and probably won’t understand, the relationship is built on fragments of information that are fixed—and if you need knowns that the town does not provide, no trivial concerns such as loyalty to truth, a nagging consideration had you stayed home, stand in the way of your introducing them as needed by the poem. It is easy to turn the gas station attendant into a drunk, Back home it would have been difficult because he had a drinking problem.

—Richard Hugo, “The Triggering Town,” The Triggering Town (Norton, 1979)

not easy to write badly

To write as badly as Wordsworth is not easy. Even for Wordsworth it was a difficult as when Wordsworth was writing well.

—William Gass, Habitations of the Word (Cornell Univ. Press, 1997, p 120)