Poetry is lazy and wants the lazy life to stay,
And with imagination, returns to yesterday.
Poets are lazy, and they lie against the wall,
Their feet on the bed, immeasurably tall.
I go back to Riverside Drive in my mind.
Anna Akhmatova. My childhood was anything but blind.
Poetry is lazy; the best of it is lazy, with a dying fall.
A lazy poet wants to tell you he’s here—
But not in this young, busy atmosphere.
You have no idea how lazy the gods are,
Those titans of the past, who hardly move,
Standing around like that steady star:
The visible point of your lost love—
And everything you are.
Poetry is lazy. It spends time on the face,
Before it kisses the body of the poem.
Look, it’s right here. This is the poem:
Take my disgrace.