Poetry Quotes - Page 100

No non-poetic account of reality can be complete.

There is a difference between a poem and a writing incrusted with a feel of Poetry to fall within range

He loves me, he loves me not. How many flowers must I kill before he loves me?” ~He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Walking causes a repetitive, spontaneous poetry to rise naturally to the lips, words as simple as the sound of footsteps on the road. There also seems to be an echo of walking in the practice of two choruses singing a psalm in alternate verses, each on a single note, a practice that makes it possible to chant and listen by turns. Its main effect is one of repetition and alternation that St Ambrose compared to the sound of the sea: when a gentle surf is breaking quietly on the shore the regularity of the sound doesn’t break the silence, but structures it and renders it audible. Psalmody in the same way, in the to-and-fro of alternating responses, produces (Ambrose said) a happy tranquillity in the soul. The echoing chants, the ebb and flow of waves recall the alternating movement of walking legs: not to shatter but to make the world’s presence palpable and keep time with it. And just as Claudel said that sound renders silence accessible and useful, it ought to be said that walking renders presence accessible and useful.

Poetry, I tell my students,is idiosyncratic. Poetryis where we are ourselves,(though Sterling Brown said"Every 'I' is a dramatic 'I'")digging in the clam flatsfor the shell that snaps,emptying the proverbial pocketbook.Poetry is what you findin the dirt in the corner,overhear on the bus, Godin the details, the only wayto get from here to there.Poetry (and now my voice is rising)is not all love, love, loveand I'm sorry the dog died.Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)is the human voice,and are we not of interest to each other?

She reminded me that I could write stories,/could be struck by lightning & live.

Today I want to leave the worldI want to leave the painLeave the heartacheI know where it is goingI want to see my Savior

I'm at that place I grew up to leave.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

You are nothing like my father. And like my father you are nothing.

Poetry, to me, is a type of shamanistic chant capable of chasing away the darkness within us.

If I lived a million lives, I would've felt a million feelings and I still would've fallen a million times for you.

My heart in the East But the rest of me far in the West— How can I savor this life, even taste what I eat? How, in the bonds of the Moor, Zion chained to the Cross, Can I do what I’ve vowed to and must? Gladly I’d leave All the best of grand Spain For one glimpse of the ruined Shrine’s dust.

And though they fell as ashes, their shadows drifted as leaves.

Staring GirlI once knew a girlwho would just stand there and stare.At anyone or anything,she seemed not to careShe'd stare at the ground,She'd stare at the sky.She'd stare at you for hours,and you'd never know why.But after winning the local staring contest,she finally gave her eyesa well-deserved rest.

If one million of you give assent to the one thousand who participate in the murder of a child, then one million of you are a million times guilty.

yo te amo para comenzar a amarte,para recomenzar el infinitoy para no dejar de amarte nunca:por eso no te amo todavía.

I can’t sleep alone anymoreand I get used tocompanytoo quickly. You’re always gone too soon.

If the afternoon had been blue,there might have been less desire.

Why does a heart wear its eyesinto helllike slivers of false sunshine

You are only as touched my the magic of this life as you want to be.

There is a defect in usas human beingsbecause we think ourselvesa fortress, a mountain, unbreakablebut at the centerin that stillness of beingthere is a chasmof lovewhich echoes hope, compassion, empathytry again, it saysand though the fault lines are full of darknesswe are held together bythe optimism and foolishness of a single spark

If the sun rolled back like an eye,it would see the mind of God.

THREE BASIC TRUTHSThree things have a limited threshold: Time, pain, and death.While truth, love, and knowledge –Are boundless.Three things are needed For humanity to co-exist:Truth, peace and basic needs.Everything else -Is irrelevant.

Sweat seems to bleed / like pride from their bones.

That old man over thereIs selling trinkets made of stonesThat old woman the entire worldIn a map without any hole!

The mimicry of passion is the most intolerable of all poses.

Strike, with hand of fire, O weird musician, thy harp strung with Apollo's golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until thy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonlit waves, and charm the lovers wandering 'mid the vine-clad hills. But know, your sweetest strains are discords all, compared with childhood's happy laugh—the laugh that fills the eyes with light and every heart with joy. O rippling river of laughter, thou art the blessed boundary line between the beasts and men; and every wayward wave of thine doth drown some fretful fiend of care. O Laughter, rose-lipped daughter of Joy, there are dimples enough in thy cheeks to catch and hold and glorify all the tears of grief.

I’m going to become a beat poet and a lesbian!

Learn to eat with your enemies all around you but most of all thank God for his presence. Keep your eyes fixed to the presence of God in the presence of your enemies.

But let us laugh carelessly like other men. Let us be timid even among fools. Let us knot silence around our throats.For they would surely kill us.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

She's a dark-eyed, red flame, bohemian hurricane.

you need to be careful with me.i fall in loveand i fall in love forever.

We are our memory,we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes,that pile of broken mirrors.

I've written you sixty-seven love poems.Here’s another one for you.But really, for me.These poems are the candles that I light with the fire you have ignited in me.I place this candle here and another thereso even if the stars have argued with the moonand are sulking away in a corner, you can still find your way to me.Sixty-eight poems now. What does the future hold for us?Joy? Disappointment? Gentle caresses? And subtle neglect?I hope the good is more than the bad. Much more. For what is the point of loveif by lighting these candlesour own flame loses its brightness?I know the good is more than the bad. Much more.I cannot wait to write you sixty-nine.

Silence can be a planrigorously executedthe blueprint to a lifeIt is a presenceit has a history a formDo not confuse itwith any kind of absence

Since it has quietly began to snow,new distances have awakened within me.

If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week.

God always sees me with no make-ups on because He knew how we started.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

Why covet a knowledge of new facts? Day and night, house and garden, a few books, a few actions, serve us as well as would all trades and all spectacles. We are far from having exhausted the significance of the few symbols we use. We can come to use them yet with a terrible simplicity.

A Poet never denies creativity entrance.

The machines are too dull when weare lion-poems that move & breathe.

I build boxesand place them at your feet,to measure the distance between dreams and reality.

If after I die, people want to write my biography, there is nothing simpler. They only need two dates: the date of my birth and the date of my death. Between one and another, every day is mine.

I'm not your blue-eyed Czech,I'm just a brown-eyed girl, A little mix of rock your world,And now you'll never be the same. You grabbed me by the hand,I grabbed you by the neck. I changed the game, and your convictions.So is it criminal to steal a heart or two?I keep them on the shelf, Like only hunters do. I like it hardI like you highI love your mouthWhen it's on mine.I wanna hear you make that sound, Cause it's the greatest thing around. Take it off now,Take from here.Watch your head spin When I come near,And you will lose every time,Cause I won't stop until your mine.And they say who the hell is she?They either love me or they hate me. But still they never look away,This vixen's gonna give you everything.

All war is based in deception (cfr. Sun Tzu, “The Art of War”).Definition of deception: “The practice of deliberately making somebody believe things that are not true. An act, a trick or device entended to deceive somebody”.Thus, all war is based in metaphor.All war necessarily perfects itself in poetry.Poetry (since indefinable) is the sense of seduction.Therefore, all war is the storytelling of seduction, and seduction is the nature of war.

I do not trust the truth. It shifts into reality.

If you only knew how many sentences I have withheld in hopes that I will be allowed to speak them into your heart one day.

We all must face death and walk with it. But we also must love and live in it.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;I feel it when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all.

Today, death is your opponent.

What did you think, that joy / was some slight thing?

What are days for?Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over.They are to be happy in: Where can we live but days?Ah, solving that questionBrings the priest and the doctor In their long coatsRunning over the fields.

Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.

God made my enemies to serve me in my absence. God made the things that conspired to destroy me feed me into the place that He was preparing for me. I am a big girl and I can handle trouble and my enemies.

My highest aspiration in life is to serve as the Limerick Laureate of Nantucket.

I’ll give you one chance to run,but may your shoulder always whisper in your ear…“It’s best to watch out for men, like me.

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.