Poet Quotes - Page 6

For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: What dost thou in this living tomb?

I am poetry in motion

I stopped losing my sleep over you...Now i lie awakein search of me!!

...a bard's down-to-earth love: My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red and when she walks, treads on the ground...

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

Mechanics is a means or discipline for the realization of life, but not life itself. It ought to carry us to life itself.

The trouble with poetry is it's often written to the sound of a drum only the poet may hear; nonetheless, blessed are those poets who always manage to find unshakeable pleasure in their own works.

A poet often lives in an enchanted land where he sees things not with his eyes but with his feelings.

Nations conquered and true love prevails, all encompassed in a poets tale.

I have loved enough women to know how to paint.If I had loved fewer, I would be an illustrator; if I had loved more, I would be a poet.

A poet dares be just so clear and no clearer... He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.

I did it the hard wayMany of the big dreams I dreamt,I dreamt, when I met a failed attempt.Life taught me to believe thatGreat ideas can start from a wretched hut.Many of the strongest steps I took,I took, when I was given the fiercest look.My passion pokes me to understandThat people’s mockeries, I can withstand.Many of the fastest speeds I gained,I gained when I was bitterly stained.I first thought the only way was to quitAs I tried again, I no longer have guilt.Many of the bravest decisions I made,I made, when my life was about to fade.I was frustrated and ripe to sink.But then I strive to release the ink.Many of the longest journeys I started,I started, having no resource; money partedI relied on God my creator all dawn longAnd at dusk He gave me a new song.Many of the hardest questions I tackled,I tackled, when I was heckled.They were very troublesome to settleBut I make it happen little by littleYet, it was not I, but the Lord JesusThe saviour who gives me success.In Him, through Him and by HimI have the liberty to do everything with vim.I don’t want to enjoy this liberty alone.You too must step out of your comfort zone.It’s not easy, but you can do it anyway.Jesus is the life, the truth and the way.

There is a madness in me that does not follow society.

Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flightThe Stars before him from the Field of Night,Drives Night along with them from Heav'n,and strikesThe Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light

Poetry is jealous of you tonight, for as soon as I come to pen a few words, your perfume attacks me in the most civilised manner and I forget myself. I forget the poem. I forget the ...

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.

I was in no tent under leaves, sleepless and glad. There was no moon at all; along the world’s coasts the sea tides would be springing strong. The air itself also has lunar tides; I lay still. Could I feel in the air an invisible sweep and surge, and an answering knock in the lungs? Or could I feel the starlight? Every minute on a square mile of this land one ten thousandth of an ounce of starlight spatters to earth. What percentage of an ounce did that make on my eyes and cheeks and arms, tapping and nudging as particles, pulsing and stroking as waves?

...After you have done everything to please a man and he's taken his pleasure with you, all you are for him is a whore, and a whore's daughter.

I am nothing but a ripped fabric stitched together by God's grace.

My biggest fear is forgetting why I fell in love with writing. My biggest dream is never allowing that to happen.

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

The poet is at the edge of our consciousness of the world, finding beyond the suspected nothingness which we imagine limits our perception another acre or so of being worth our venturing upon.

You cannot free someonewho is caged intheir own self.

Everything turns in circles and spirals with the cosmic heart until infinity. Everything has a vibration that spirals inward or outward — and everything turns together in the same direction at the same time. This vibration keeps going: it becomes born and expands or closes and destructs — only to repeat the cycle again in opposite current. Like a lotus, it opens or closes, dies and is born again. Such is also the story of the sun and moon, of me and you. Nothing truly dies. All energy simply transforms.

Creation of a pregnant imagination.

It is one of the maladies of our age to profess a frenzied allegiance to truth in unimportant matters, to refuse consistently to face her where graver issues are at stake.

To be a poet in today’s technological age means to be underrated and at times, ignored. In a world where the noise of industry reigns supreme, the poet’s voice is being drowned out, but it is a voice that is desperately needed. Our words ring out into the atmosphere and calls the masses back to their senses. We must seize this opportunity and remain true to our purpose in society. Ours is a most noble duty, here to represent the misunderstood and underrepresented, and one day, one person will heed the call of our words and the world will be set ablaze!

I wait on my fix:I am a poetry junkie.

As I read you I fell in love with the holes between your words and I loved you most on the days you could not love yourself.

There are many unspeakable words, forgotten, or forbidden.Great thanks to the poets who make them all become reachable.

Limit not to only five, when the divine gifts the supreme sixth; the sense of dance

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. 

Shadow is the blue patch where the light doesn’t hit. It is mystery itself, and mystery is the ancients’ ultima Thule, the modern explorer’s Point of Relative Inaccessibility, that boreal point most distant from all known lands. There the twin oceans of beauty and horror meet. The great glaciers are calving. Ice that sifted to earth as snow in the time of Christ shears from the pack with a roar and crumbles to water. It could be that our instruments have not looked deeply enough. The RNA deep in the mantis’s jaw is a beautiful ribbon. Did the crawling Polyphemus moth have in its watery heart one cell, and in that cell one special molecule, and that molecule one hydrogen atom, and round that atom’s nucleus one wild, distant electron that split showed a forest, swaying?

One may never get to know how fast the time travels till the one gets in that position to race against the time.

Poetry is the whispering of a truth by the shouting of the best possible lies

God doesn't listen to me too, but people have their suspicions. सुनता तो रब हमारी भी नहीं,पर लोगों को अल्लाह पे शक बेशक है

The only way to find art is to lose touch with reality.

Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.

To my way of thinking the function of the poet is to make us aware of what we know and don't know we know.

The so-called poet with his vague dreams and ideals is indeed no better than a harmless lunatic; the true poet is the worker, who grips life's throat and wrings out its secret, who selects austerely and composes concisely, whose work is as true and clean as razor-steel, albeit its sweep is vaster and swifter than the sun's!

Whose starboard eyeSaw chariot 'swing low'?

I will not stop singingthe Muses who set me dancing.

Music resembles poetry, in eachAre nameless graces which no methods teach,And which a master hand alone can reach.

I see the life with your sight,O" the love; you're my light.

To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern, that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel, that discernment is but a hand playing with finely-ordered variety on the chords of emotion--a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge.

For the poet is a light and winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has been inspired and is out of his senses, and the mind is no longer in him: when he has not attained to this state, he is powerless and is unable to utter his oracles.

A POCKET-SIZED GIRLHe keeps me in his pocket for a rainy day; he swears I'm not an object as he yo-yo's me away.A friend is what we'll call it,but my friend, he does not know,each time it rains I love him— so to his pocket, I must go.He thinks he's being clever,but I am not a fool;his love ain't worth a penny,so to my heart I must be cruel.

I left the bankbecause they wouldn’t deposit my cheque of poems.So I went to the store,but they didn’t acceptmy currency of words.So I boxed all my storiesand took them to charity.But they refused my donation and asked me to give blood instead.I opened the notebooks and made them look, 'What do you think I wrote these in?

These poems are cupsthat I pour my life into.Here, Drink!

If you can't tell from my rap lyrics already, yes I am a feminist. And when I'm saying "hoe" or "bitch" I am actually referring to men. ...That sounded bad, in someway. But at the end of the day, I'm sick of rappers using "bitches" and "hoes" as terms towards women. Feminists are NOT a hate group. Feminists are not all female. Nor has it got an anti-male agenda. It's about equality! I've had a weird, special bond with women since I was a kid. And it's just a shame really that I'm gay.

I know that touching you will be understanding my fingers for the first time.

I plan to be a sinner tonight. Could've been something else, but looked way too good in my red dress to be anything Christian.

When she bites my lips,I see stars dancing right next to the sun.

I clearly understand, first, that the real human being is a poet and, second, that [the tyrant] is the incarnate negation of a poet.

A poem is a naked person....Some people say that I am a poet.

If your not annoying somebody, you're not alive.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

Now is not the time for bigots and racists. No time for sexists and homophobes. Now, more than ever, is the time for ARTISTS. It’s time for us to rise above and to create. To show humanity. To spread hope. We must prevent society from destroying itself, from losing its way. Now is the time for love.

If I’m writing, at least I don’t feel as paralyzed.

Sometimes it’s great, and sometimes it’s shit.These are the things all the great philosophersjust won’t tell you flat out about life. You keep moving, keep living, keep breathingAnd you keep writing-creating because that’s what you doAnd that’s who you are. There are no magical voices to guideYou except your own. Make it count.~ R.M. ENGELHARDT