Poetry Quotes

Though I play at the edges of knowing, truly I know our part is not knowing, but looking, and touching, and loving

The Scorpion?The Grasshopper?Which way will she go?

What I really want is to be recognized as a writer; that someday, my poetry — this is an interesting paradox — would be taught in English classes; for my name, along with my poetry, to exist 500 years from now.

The open door is never behind you; the open door is always before you. Quit looking at your past life and mistakes. Look unto Jesus who is the Author and Perfector of our faith. Your open door is not in the opportunity you missed ten years ago, it is not in some stuffs behind you that you can't get back. You can't gain your access by giving attention to your past life.Your past days are behind you and what God has for you is in front of you. Just pay attention.

may my heart always be open to littlebirds who are the secrets of livingwhatever they sing is better than to knowand if men should not hear them men are oldmay my mind stroll about hungryand fearless and thirsty and suppleand even if it's sunday may i be wrongfor whenever men are right they are not youngand may myself do nothing usefullyand love yourself so more than trulythere's never been quite such a fool who could failpulling all the sky over him with one smile

The more formidable the contradiction between inexhaustible life-joy and inevitable fate, the greater the longing which reveals itself in the kingdom of poetry and in the self-created world of dreams hopes to banish the dark power of reality. The gods enjoy eternal youth, and the search for the means of securing it was one of the occupations of the heroes of mythology and the sages, as it was of real adventurers in the middle ages and more recent times. . . . But the fountain of youth has not been found, and can not be found if it is sought in any particular spot on the earth. Yet it is no fable, no dream-picture; it requires no adept to find it: it streams forth inexhaustible in all living nature.

You belong to everything andeverything belongs to you.You are in the beauty of a flower.You are also in the nourishing spring shower.Then why do you fear to change?You just lose your nameand your inner beauty remains the same.

On these days, I've never felt so hollow. Recollecting the many pieces of me that were lost in past sub-lives. They were the minor characters of my novel life, the sub-plots to the whole story. On these days I was the binding that held the book together, I was not the words.

One step, two steps, three steps; like winds of time experience joy of centuries, when movements become revelations of the dance of destinies.

To wander solitary there:Two paradises ‘twere in oneTo live in paradise alone.

The bats inebriate the sky . . .

Do not judge a woman on her knees_you never know how tall she is when she stands!

I was born to make mistakes, not to be perfect.

Snub end of a dismal year, deep in the dwarf orchard, The sky with its undercoat of blackwash and point stars,I stand in the dark and answer toMy life, this shirt I want to take off,which is on fire . . .

sometimes even the worst dreams are better than this reality

She was broken, I think it’s because she loved too much and she was always blind to the fact that love too is sometimes broken.

Mislaid flame of tender emotionsRekindled.Together we live to the point of tears,I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun, And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run; Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

The game itself is bigger than the winning.

A whiff of fresh mintthat tastes like strawberry pie.Your kisses tempt me.

The first kiss and the first glass of wine are the best.

Therefore, since the world has stillMuch good, but much less good than ill,And while the sun and moon endureLuck's a chance, but trouble's sure,I'd face it as a wise man would,And train for ill and not for good.

THE SILENT PEOPLESome people are so rude,Living their lives with no concern for others,Or possibly just intent on pissing other people off-Annoying everyone around them.The silent people-Want to kill them-And drive forks into their skulls-Create weapons of extreme torture-And scream from the top of their lungs-"SHUT UP."But words are not spoken-And attention is not given.Though annoyance is apparent,The annoying keep on living.

King John was not a good man,He had his little ways.And sometimes no one spoke to him,For days and days and days.

We humans are so tortured by not properly guessing what will make us happy.

As the future ripens in the past,so the past rots in the future --a terrible festival of dead leaves.

I don't think I've ever dared to write down what I see in the ruins of me, or tell in any detail the scars and all their secrets.

It looked as though the leaves of the autumn forest had taken flight, and were pouring down the valley like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, all the leaves of the hardwoods from here to Hudson’s Bay. It was as if the season’s colors were draining away like lifeblood, as if the year were molting and shedding. The year was rolling down, and a vital curve had been reached, the tilt that gives way to headlong rush. And when the monarch butterflies had passed and were gone, the skies were vacant, the air poised. The dark night into which the year was plunging was not a sleep but an awakening, a new and necessary austerity, the sparer climate for which I longed. The shed trees were brittle and still, the creek light and cold, and my spirit holding its breath.

Creators of history always play with our impotence and our ignorance.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

Walk a bit further. There is a different land not far away. The people in it have the magic to break the icy fingers of the great death.I heard that you don’t even have to pay.However, you have to find their door.It is only found by those who pay the other price.

She loved me deeply, madly and passionately. She knew no other way!

So runs my dream, but what am I?An infant crying in the nightAn infant crying for the lightAnd with no language but a cry.

A town loved with bitter love.

WORDS SHLD BE FREE. RELEASE THEM FROM THEIR SENTENCES.

Now you may hear songs of kindness From every singing bird And from every dancing heart Let kindness be the part of your being

Don’t read books!Don’t chant poems!When you read books your eyeballs wither awayleaving the bare sockets.When you chant poems your heart leaks out slowlywith each word.People say reading books is enjoyable.People say chanting poems is fun.But if your lips constantly make a soundlike an insect chirping in autumn,you will only turn into a haggard old man.And even if you don’t turn into a haggard old man,it’s annoying for others to have to hear you.It’s so much betterto close your eyes, sit in your study,lower the curtains, sweep the floor,burn incense.It’s beautiful to listen to the wind,listen to the rain,take a walk when you feel energetic,and when you’re tired go to sleep.

We were strange in loveher and I too wild to last too rare to die.

For we cannot tarry here,We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!

It seems to me now that the plain state of being human is dramatic enough for anyone you don't need to be a heroin addict or a performance poet to experience extremity. You just have to love someone.

A fallen blossomreturning to the bough, I thought --But no, a butterfly.

The respect + love for humanity that's why I travel.We are all special and gifted beings, no matter our religious differences. The message should be peace,love and prosperity. There should be no adversity but solidarity.

Words do not come back to me easily,so I pull out my heart and wrap itin a thin sheet of paper, let the bloodseep across in stanzas of honestyand hand it to anyone who will take itso that the still-beating heart can tell themall my secrets, all my weaknesses,because if they are not hiddenthey cannot be taken and used against me.

The characters in my novels are my own unrealised possibilities. That is why I am equally fond of them all and equally horrified by them. Each one has crossed a border that I myself have circumvented.

World seems like a void of silence every time footsteps are deprived of dancing shoes.

Do not forget about the thorns on the roseswhen you say that love is like a red red rose.

Creating means living.

Mine Enemy is growing old --I have at last Revenge --The Palate of the Hate departs --If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits --It is a faded Meat --Anger as soon as fed is dead --'Tis starving makes it fat

THE HARDESTSTEPWE ALL MUST TAKEIS TO BLINDLY TRUST IN WHO WE ARE. - ATTICUS

We have seen the best minds of our generation destroyed by boredom at poetry readings.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness -And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

Everything is an echo of something I once read.Dream, hope, and celebrate life!Love always comes back in a song.One thing we all have in common is a love for food and drink.Memories never die, and dreams never end!What is time?

A grain of poetry suffices to season a century.

All paths lead to death, our premature sacrifice for future spawn(from Elixir)

I miss you, I miss you at night, I can’t sleep without you anymore, I’m scared. Meet me in heaven.

there is a difference betweenloneliness and solitude,one will empty you andone will fill you.you have the power to choose.

Had we but world enough, and time

Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to aery thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two ; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.

He was her reason for existence,She was his ultimate risk.

...prose unfolds in time; and time contains both obstacles and revelations. Prose develops, the way characters and situations do. It requires a flow. A poem is an instant, lightning across the sky. Prose is before the storm, the storm, after the storm.