Angel Crespo aphorisms

Poetry is like a needle in a haystack. When the poet finally finds it, he hides it again among the chaff.

Poetry is like a hunter who takes his hawk up to the mountain and then hunts it.

Poetry is like a field sown with wheat. The master comes and asks, "Who's the swine that got rid of the locusts?"

The poet is like a hunter who has a bow and rifle: he sends arrows into the air and then tries to shoot them down.

When the poet finds the penny, he feels poorer than when he was looking for it.

Imaginations doesn't invent images, but harmonizes them with the initial nothingness of the poem.

If you can call a butterfly a flying flower, can you call a flower a stationary butterfly? No. Poetry is not a roundtrip ticket.