More about Paul Engle
Paul Engle Quotes
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Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage.
The sharpest memory of our old-fashioned Christmas eve is my mother's hand making sure I was settled in bed.
All families had their special Christmas food. Ours was called Dutch Bread, made from a dough halfway between bread and cake, stuffed with citron and every sort of nut from the farm - hazel, black walnut, hickory, butternut.
To eat in the same room where food is cooked - that is the way to thank the Lord for His abundance.
A barn with cattle and horses is the place to begin Christmas; after all, that's where the original event happened, and that same smell was the first air that the Christ Child breathed.
Every Christmas should begin with the sound of bells, and when I was a child mine always did. But they were sleigh bells, not church bells, for we lived in a part of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where there were no churches.
For my Oxford degree, I had to translate French and German philosophy (as it turned out, Descartes and Kant) at sight without a dictionary. That meant Germany for my first summer vacation, to learn the thorny language on my own.
The years rolled their brutal course down the hill of time. Still poor, my clothes still smelling of the horse barn, still writing those doubtful poems where too much emotion clashed with too many words.
Quote of the day
To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.
October 12, 1908
March 22, 1991
Paul Engle, noted American poet, editor, teacher, literary critic, novelist, and playwright.
A Lucky American Childhood
American Child: A Sonnet Sequence (1945)
The good earth
Worn earth (1932)
Paul Engle on Wikipedia
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