A Quote by William Carlos Williams
Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
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Poets are Damned... but See with the Eyes of Angels.
Being blind is as simple as closing your eyes. The blind don't act any different than you or I. You never see a blind person going around saying, 'I'm blind.' So if you want to play blind just close your eyes and keep them closed and fare thee well.
For centuries poets, some poets, have tried to give a voice to the animals, and readers, some readers, have felt empathy and sorrow. If animals did have voices, and they could speak with the tongues of angels-at the very least with the tongues of angels-they would be unable to save themselves from us. What good would language do? Their mysterious otherness has not saved them, nor have their beautiful songs and coats and skins and shells and eyes.
I am the One, and I see all. But the blind man in Apartment 1-A is blind in many ways, as are all human beings, even those with functioning eyes. They are blind to their folly, to their ignorance, to their history, to the future that they will make for themselves. A future born of self-loathing.
Twenty-three stories up and all I could see out the windows was grey smog. They could call it the City of the Angels if they wanted to, but if there were angels out there, they had to be flying blind.
Poets, like the blind, can see in the dark.
Angels speak. They appear and reappear. They feel with apt sense of emotion. While Angels may become visible by choice, our eyes are not conducted to see them ordinarily any more than we can see the dimensions of a nuclear field, the structure of atoms, or the electricity that flows through copper wiring.
I'm not human, Ms. Deveraux. In case you haven't noticed, I'm one of the damned. (Valerius) Baby, open your eyes and look around. We're all damned in one way or another. But damned is a far cry from dead. And you live like you're dead. (Tabitha) I'm that, too. (Valerius)
When I could not see the light with my blind eyes, I blamed not my eyes, but the sun.
Angels light the way. Angels do not begrudge anyone anything, angels do not tear down, angels do not compete, angels do not constrict their hearts, angels do not fear. That's why they sing and that's how they fly. We, of course, are only angels in disguise.
Why did we become blind, I don't know, perhaps one day we'll find out, Do you want me to tell you what I think, Yes, do, I don't think we did go blind, I think we are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see.
I'd be damned if I let him see the tears in my eyes.
In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.
This, I thought, is how great visionaries and poets see everything- as if for the first time. Each morning they see a new world before their eyes; they do not really see it, they create it.
In this busy modernized age, it's easy to be blind to the light all around us. You see, there truly are real angels living among us that look just like you and I. If you pay attention, you can spot one because they're quite easy to find. They're the souls with the eternally deep eyes that always act like something is broken inside, but fail to realize it's just their wings.
Better to be blind and see with your heart, than to have two good eyes and see nothing.
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