#poem

A poem is learned by heart and then not again repeated. We will suppose that after a half year it has been forgotten: no effort of recollection is able to call it back again into consciousness. ↗

— Hermann Ebbinghaus

#after #again #back #been #call

The Hollywood movies are more like novels, and the kinds of films I make are more like poems. ↗

— Stan Brakhage

#hollywood #hollywood movies #i #kinds #like

I consider my films to be poems that are all as personal as my writing and as hand-made. ↗

— James Broughton

#films #i #personal #poems #writing

Today the U.S. is farther from being nourished by poetry than it was a hundred years ago, when books of poems were best-sellers. ↗

— James Broughton

#being #books #farther #hundred #nourished

Rome was a poem pressed into service as a city. ↗

— Anatole Broyard

#into #poem #pressed #rome #service

Whether you listen to a piece of music, or a poem, or look at a picture or a jug, or a piece of sculpture, what matters about it is not what it has in common with others of its kind, but what is singularly its own. ↗

— Basil Bunting

#common #jug #kind #listen #look

But short films are not inferior, just different. I think the short gives a freedom to film-makers. What's appealing is that you don't have as much responsibility for storytelling and plot. They can be more like a portrait, or a poem. ↗

— Jane Campion

#different #film-makers #films #freedom #gives

If you read Keats's poems, they're often full of doubts and anxieties. They can be quite tough. ↗

— Jane Campion

#doubts #full #keats #often #poems

There's no artist in this world that doesn't enjoy the dream that if they have bad reviews now, the story of Keats can redeem them, in their fantasy or imagination, in the future. I think Keats' poem 'Endymion' is a really difficult poem, and I'm not surprised that a lot of people pulled it apart in a way. ↗

— Jane Campion

#artist #bad #difficult #dream #enjoy

The Wolf trots to and fro, The world lies deep in snow, The raven from the birch tree flies, But nowhere a hare, nowhere a roe, The roe -she is so dear, so sweet - If such a thing I might surprise In my embrace, my teeth would meet, What else is there beneath the skies? The lovely creature I would so treasure, And feast myself deep on her tender thigh, I would drink of her red blood full measure, Then howl till the night went by. Even a hare I would not despise; Sweet enough its warm flesh in the night. Is everything to be denied That could make life a little bright? The hair on my brush is getting grey. The sight is failing from my eyes. Years ago my dear mate died. And now I trot and dream of a roe. I trot and dream of a hare. I hear the wind of midnight howl. I cool with the snow my burning jowl, And on to the devil my wretched soul I bear. ↗

— Hermann Hesse

#steppenwolf #dreams