Poet Quotes - Page 3

In the days of Prismatic Colornot in the days of Adam and Eve, but when Adam was alone; when there was no smoke and color was fine, not with the refinement of early civilization art, but because of its originality; with nothing to modify it but the mist that went up, obliqueness was a variation of the perpendicular, plain to see and to account for: it is no longer that; nor did the blue-red-yellow band of incandescence that was color keep its stripe

Caution not spirit, let it roam wild; for in that natural state dance embraces divine frequency.

So you find Miss Mercer beautiful?”The buzzing in Spencer’s head formed the words, “’She walks in beauty like the night/Of cloudless climes and starry skies.’”“My God, now you’re quoting poetry.”Had he said that aloud? Bloody hell. Spencer brandished his empty mug at his brother. “I always quote verse when I’m foxed.”“You must be very foxed to quote that idiot Byron. Or very impressed by Miss Mercer’s looks.

It always felt as though there were a shaken beehive living in my chest. I could never rest.

Poetry is and should not be explained It’s not a theory not a formula or a set patternIt’s a labyrinth of reflection with no source of image

The poet is a Cyclops in the Kingdom of the Blind whose sole cure for the madness of his vision must be starvation.

They came and they left. You cried, but you stood your ground. You stayed tethered to hope as well as committed to dignified dreams and little victories of day-to-day life. You felt different. Then you started to change. Your smile returned with reticence before completely taking over your face. Today, you are no longer afraid to let that smile be there, and now you understand it was not about them. It was never about anyone else. This was about you from the day you were born. This was about you learning to love yourself—not letting the inferiority of the external corrupt the piety of the internal. This was your personal revolution. This was the uprising of your lifetime.And you won.

Impulsive passion please set me free.

I should think a poet president would be able to create a delectable confluence of various spaces. A poet is most political.

Today is half of Yesterday and Tomorrow, Choose Today to make Tomorrow

A poetess is a collection of unfinished thoughts. She is a tormented phantom, a harbinger of life and death. Those who peer deep inside her catacombs will learn that even madness is a virtue.

To be a woman is to be a fighter! A woman has to be strong and has to fight every moment of her life - against a society that believes in patriarchy, chauvinism and male privilege!

This one is for our crew, but it’s also for all the weird girls and word nerds, for all the in-the-middle wickeds and queers and misfits and hell-raisers.

Without intending to, without even knowing it, he demonstrated with his life that his father had been right when he repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate, no manager so lucid or dangerous, than a poet.

we want it visibletto showwhen even the most tvisible joyttwill reveal itselfonly when we havetttransformed it within.there’s nowhere, my love, the world can existexpect within.

In the beginning was the word, and primitive societies venerated poets second only to their leaders. A poet had the power to name and so to control; he was, literally, the living memory of a group or tribe who would perpetuate their history in song; his inspiration was god given and he was in effect a medium.

The American bards shall be marked for generosity and affection and for encouraging competitors… . The great poets are also to be known by the absence in them of tricks and by the justification of perfect personal candor… . How beautiful is candor! All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor.

The moon is my fear.The sun is my heart afire.The stars, my love songs.

And now he is singing a bard's curse upon you, O brother abbot, and upon your father and your mother, and your grandfather and your grandmother, nd upon all your relations.'Is he cursing in rhyme?'He is cursing in rhyme, and with two assonances in every line of his curse.'("The Crucifixion Of The Outcast")

I thought, 'There are a lot of poets who have the courage to look into the abyss, but there are very few who have the courage to look happiness in the face and write about it,' which is what I wanted to be able to do.

Aviation in air, in water and in spirit. Its laws are different in all three cases. The spirit soars the more it weighs and sinks into itself. The heavier the spirit, the higher and farther it flies.

For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something — distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world — but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.

Passion in every word I wrote, passion in every single thought.

And then it dawned on me that the greatest love stories in the world never have happy endings.

And this is what being an artist means, being a poet? To sacrifice yourself for your art, sacrifice your heart for your art, because it’s only through something broken that something beautiful can grow.

Spirit is a child, the tune of dancing feet its lullaby.

You kissed me that morning as if you’d never done it before and never would again and now I write another letter that I will never dare to send, collecting memories of loss like chains tight around my chest,and if you see a fire from the shore tonightit’s my chains going up in flames.

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being and dance are one.

Music does not need language of words for it has movements of dance to do its translation.

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

Sometimes a writer simply finds new ways of saying what has already been said because, ultimately, truth is unoriginal.

You're back where you swore yourself you wouldn't beThe familiar shackles you can't tell from your own skinYour head's under water when you learned to swimOn a road to hell, congratulations, you're free...

Sometimes, when inspiration runs dry, I drink classical music until my words spill out.

Men take care of your responsibilities with maturity.

YOU ARE JUSTYou are not just for the right or left,but for what is right over the wrong.You are not just rich or poor,but always wealthy in the mind and heart.You are not perfect, but flawed.You are flawed, but you are just.You may just be conscious human,but you are also a magnificentreflection of God.

Your eyes are like heavy rain falling from pregnant clouds. With one glance, you washed awaythe poems I chalked on the groundand drowned all my beliefs.Now, I only scribble your name and believe in your truth. I know nothing but you.

The Lone Star of Africa Land of the free, on your beach and sacred forests loves flourished. You, Liberia, you my love to echo, the scream of freedom, holding tight and will never let go. O beautiful land, The Lone star for decades has survived wars and tribalism the elders who keep the ancestral treasures that resulted in Vandalism. When will morning break for great leaders to stand for what is right Mother Liberia?

To live day by dayIs not to live at all.

Writing is also an art.

Question not, but live and labourTill yon goal be won,Helping every feeble neighbour,Seeking help from none;Life is mostly froth and bubble,Two things stand like stone,Kindness in another's trouble,Courage in your own.

The serenity of the lulling ocean is a wondrous thing to behold..more precious than the gems coveted and covered in platinum or gold...

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance like breath.

Dance to inspire, dance to freedom, life is about experiences so dance and let yourself become free.

Write as an audience member. Write what you want to see, feel and hear.

The pity is not that there is a myth of Sylvia Plath but that the myth is not simply that of an enormously gifted poet whose death came carelessly, by mistake, and too soon.

O Heavenly Children, do not forget that God is here, there and everywhere. The birds are his eyes and the air is his ears. And as you sleep, your heart and soul rest naked before him. He can drink from the rivers of your thoughts, and even feel the wetness of your tears.

Make dance the mission every moment seeks to accomplish.

TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO “Even when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.”—VICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow— Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow “has wings,” however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso “corvo,” although con dizionario io parlo Italiano— this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too— my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow— gioièllo mio— I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, serafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, a

I wish that I could fly into the sky and touch the clouds with my hands.

A poet is a pillar of light in the darkness. Sir Kristian Goldmund Aumann

You ask me to write you a poem,I pen you an empty ocean,You run away.You ask me who I am,I paint you a breaking sky,You weep in the rain.

God takes away the minds of poets, and uses them as his ministers, as he also uses diviners and holy prophets, in order that we who hear them may know them to be speaking not of themselves who utter these priceless words in a state of unconsciousness, but that God himself is the speaker, and that through them he is conversing with us.

All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them but what is universal.

The Scribe"Under the wingsOf the feathered Goddess,And in the middleOf the three dancing women,The scribe comes aliveTo reveal mysteries hiddenThrough divine gifts givenThe scribe is drivenOn his sacred missionTo wake upAll the universe'sMen, women andHeavenly children.Under the seven rays of Aten,And from the age of just ten,The scribe comes aliveWith the fertile inkOf his luminous pen.Below the spectacle of the moon,And in the smile of the sun,The scribe is here to show usHow we are all one.

... and I realise the only way to tell the others is through the way my voice can take these broken wordsand turn it into music. Turn it into poetry.And I sing to make myself come alive, but also for you,because I’d like this to mean something.To not disappear with the dark I will enter one day and so now I will tell.If not for you, then for my own heart, because it tells me to,and I'm learning to listen.

Despair is a night without lights. Dreams are the sunrise that leads you out of the darkness.

I have battled with loneliness. I have battled with insecurity and rootlessness. But I have never given up the struggle. I have never quit trying in life.

All that really matters isto feel alive, if only for a single moment –to feel in Intense Sensationthat our existence is not an endless repetitionof sleeping, eating, drinking, and dressing.

Just as the poet is a menace to conformity, he is also a constant threat to political dictators. He is always on the verge of blowing up the assembly line of political power.

It is the poet and philosopher who provide the community of objectives in which the artist participates. Their chief preoccupation, like the artist, is the expression in concrete form of their notions of reality. Like him, they deal with the verities of time and space, life and death, and the heights of exaltation as well as the depths of despair. The preoccupation with these eternal problems creates a common ground which transcends the disparity in the means used to achieve them.