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The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
-Sylvia Plath
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The Blood Jet Is Poetry And There

Sylvia Plath
The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
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Reality Blood Stopping

More From Sylvia Plath

But most love poetry is awful; nobody knows how to write good love poetry either. but that's not a reason not to write love poetry. some of the best poetry ever written has been love poetry, and some of the greatest poetry ever written has been political poetry.
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In acting you do a lot of research. audience watch jet li because of the fight. they watch other actors because they are funny. if they want funny, they don't want to see jet li, they watch the other guy. that's the reality i face, until the one day i can prove i can make film without action that is a fun movie. then everybody will say jet li, hmmm.
Fun Fighting Reality
There's no difference between lyrics and poetry. words are words. the only difference is the people who are in academic positions and call themselves poets and have an academic stance. they've got something to lose if they say it's all poetry; if there's not music to it, and you have to wear a certain kind of checkered shirt or something like that. it's all the same. lyrics are lyrics, poetry is poetry, lyrics are poetry, and poetry is lyrics. they are interchangeable to me.
Lyric Poetry Differences People
Poetry is the most informative of all of the arts because everything comes down to poetry. no matter what it is we are describing, ultimately we use either a metaphor; or we say "that's poetry in motion." you drink a glass of wine and say, "that's poetry in a bottle." everything is poetry, so i think we come down to emotional information. and that's what poetry conveys.
Art Wine Emotional
Poetry began in the matriarchal age, and derives its magic from the moon, not from the sun. no poet can hope to understand the nature of poetry unless he has had a vision of the naked king crucified to the lopped oak, and watched the dancers, red-eyed from the acrid smoke of the sacrificial fires, stamping out the measure of the dance, their bodies bent uncouthly forward, with a monotonous chant of "kill! kill! kill!" and "blood! blood! blood!
Kings Moon Fire
He laughed, and it raised goose-bumps on my arms. "oh,ma petite ,ma petite , you are precious." just what i wanted to hear. "so how are you getting here?" "my private jet." of course, he had a private jet. "when can you be here?" "i will be there as soon as i can, my impatient flower." "i prefer ma petite to flower.
Flower Bumps Arms
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