Poetry Quotes - Page 101

I remainMistress of mine own self and mine own soul

How they are all about, these gentlemenIn chamberlains' apparel, stocked and laced,Like night around their order's star and gemAnd growing ever darker, stony-faced,And these, their ladies, fragile, wan, but proppedHigh by their bodice, one hand loosely dropped,Small like its collar, on the toy King-Charles:How they surround each one of these who stoppedTo read and contemplate the objects d'art,Of which some pieces still are theirs, not ours.Whit exquisite decorum they allow usA life of whose dimensions we seem sureAnd which they cannot grasp. They were aliveTo bloom, that is be fair; we, to mature,That is to be of darkness and to strive.

Youth is as easily wasted as a fine wine consumed by a drunken man. There is no poetry in aging, and Javert lived out the process in its most hideous iteration.

Must be going crazy---my favorite poet latelyhas been me!

It starts off like climbing a tree or solving a puzzle - poetry, if nothing else, is just fun to write. But deeper into each and every piece, you no longer hesitate to call it work. It's passion. A poet's sense of lyrical accomplishment is then his food and water, his means of survival.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

Hidden by diaphanous clouds of mist and fog floating gracefully over vales of heather and flowing runnels, she began to dance.

The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful.

I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped for life in a world where people actually die. But some is.

Poetry is painting with words where you create a masterpiece by spilling your feelings and emotions onto the blank paper.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

In numele si sub teroarea ei (plictiselii, n.m.) parasesc oamenii caminul si moartea agreabila legata de el si se avanta in lume, spre a muri undeva fara acoperis si fara lacrimi; adolescentii se gandesc la sinucideri in zile infinite de primavara, iar servitoarele fara amanti se lamenteaza duminicile, de parca inima lor e un cimitir in care mortii nu pot dormi.

Evil is real but God is greater.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

love is myself in the mirror.i will see love every time.

Autumn stomps around outside the houselike an annoying little sister, tappingon all the shutters, kicking up the pilesof leaves you rake, pretending to howllike a wolf. But I'm glad she's here,so we can cuss at Summer together,pretending we don't even remember her name.

We are spirits clad in veils.

Infinity is the end. End without infinity is but a new beginning.

An intricate string made up of infinite knots and curls. Taking a step back, it really did seem so fragile. As if the smallest breeze of opportunity would cause it to snap. It held strong though, fastened to me and you as a line of steel.

Some people come into our lives and make us fall in love with our self!

You think it's time for a new beginning. You long to start from scratch, so you seek new things - trying like hell to reinvent yourself. Out with the old and in with the world's new. But you'll never create a version of yourself that is as magical and unique as the original. So... just be you.

Not a scar just psychological,But as material as roaches,Street corners and billy clubs. A wound reopened systematically,Inflicted with economic anarchy And "No Help Wanted" signs.

I'll be your blanket, baby. Wrap yourself up in me. Let me give you shelter, in the winter of this world.

More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was mistaken for by its young converts.

Think neither fear nor courage saves us.Unnatural vices are fathered by our heroism. Virtues are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

Adrijene, nemoj da se duriš!Vrati se!U redu grešila samduge godine nisam se vracala kuci,ali sam ti uvek krilada je to zato što sam bila u zatvoru!Grešila sam priznajemcesto sam tukla psa,ali sam te volela!Adrijene, nemoj da se duriš!Vrati se!

In death we vanquished enemies,In death, we slew our foes.Blood soaked rage engulfed our blades,When blood lust took its hold.–In death, a darkness troubled one,In death, concealed, undone.Deep in darkness dragons wait,When blood would set the sun.–In death, we glorified his name.In death, we saw too late,When drink, to him, we raised in praise,The dragon sealed his fate.–In death, we lived. In death, we fought.In death, we grew to hate.In death, the blackened wraith released,The blinded shade beneath.–In death, his darkened eyes grew dim.In death, his mind was lost within.With blackened eyes, he slew his kin,In death, we lost to him.–In death, I took up sword and slew.In death, the dragon’s wrath ensued.We had no choice. The dragon fumed.In death, he was consumed.–In death, our brother’s blood deplored,In death, our brother, did I gore,When I rose up and killed one more.His blood ensconced my sword.–From death, his mutterings are weak.From death, his voice, to me, it speaks.Entombed within my brother’s keep,Revived in death, he sleeps.

If I believe, truly believe our soulsare meant to cross paths, in each andevery life, traversing millennia and repeatingthis sweet interaction time and time againThen what is one lifetimewhere those interactions arecut short- For the Departed

In greatness, life and death merge.

I left smiles on your wordless lipsThe night roads- dismal and narrow,dream’s path remains shadowy wideas our lone hearts felt that arrowFrom the Poem 'My Tomorrow

You are the dreamBut I’ve had wake up calls

Look for mein sleepless nights,among the stars,I’ll be your guiding star...Look for mein the moments of happiness,on a green field,I’ll be your joy....

OnceThere was a quiet island,With a name.You must believe me When I say that sunlight, Impure but beautiful, Broke upon the bay, silveredThe unrepentant, burning moon.

She was the reason I started to write but her beauty is kept me writing.

Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imaginedfuture, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love ora passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convincedthat even the smallest particle of the surrounding world wascharged with purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, andone would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the wind-loosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by thehigh, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, somany and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like firefliesin the perfumed heat of summer night.

Your greatest dreams will always slumber within the vicious depths of fear.

I never knew what Mother knowed,Like how a thread and needle sewed,And how a kiss healed boo-boos fast.Why family knots were made to last.I never knew how Mother sawA caring man in angry pa,A smile beneath the teary gloom,A game inside a messy room.I never knowed what Mother knew,Like how to smile when days were blue,And how to laugh for laughter’s sake,While giving up her slice of cake.I never saw what Mother see’dLike honor pulling garden weeds,Or deep confessions in a look,And hope alive in storybooks.I never knew how Mother knowedTo hand out carrots when it snowed,And why hot cocoa liked the rain,While naptime kept a person sane.For mother knowed and see’d it all.A winner in a strike-out ball.A 'yes, please' in a shoulder shrug.A 'love you mostest' in a hug.Perhaps, someday, I’ll come to knowWhat Mother saw and knowed as so.Like how 'I’m right' can be all wrong,And why the night requires a song.But of the things I learned and knewI never doubted one thing true.My mother made it crystal clear,she knowed and loved me ever dear.

Our hearts may be strong and resilient against the trials of life, but they become weak and fragile against the trials of love.

Is the healing process the writing or the reading of that writing?What are we all healing from? Ourselves?What are we all healing towards? Ourselves?

Repetition sometimes works in poetry, but rarely in prose. The musical provocateur John Cage once wrote a lecture in which a single page was repeated fourteen times, with the refrain "If anybody is sleep let him go to sleep" (Cage, 1961). Midway through, the artist Jean Reynal stood up and screamed, "John, I dearly love you, but I can't bear another minute.

Life is like facing two mirrors at each other: There is no beginning, no end. Just the beauty within the reflected infinity

Ere long this golden light shall pass and fadeExcept all cherish'd mem'ries ye have made.

There’s a pressure at all hours of the day only a poem can assuage.

Love me...with all the abandonof a sudden wild rain.

you’re already naked in this worldin this timein this lifebeacause your next loveyour next hungeryou next laughterand even your next tearmay never come

My name used to be in the papers dailyAs having dined somewhere,Or traveled somewhere,Or rented a house in Paris,Where I entertained the nobility.I was forever eating or traveling,Or taking the cure at Baden-Baden.Now I am here to do honorTo Spoon River, here beside the family whence I sprang.No one cares now where I dined,Or lived, or whom I entertained,Or how often I took the cure at Baden-Baden!

She cries,I laugh,She becomes numb,I become filled with joy,She slowly crumbles,I feel on top of the world,Yet somehow in the end,Out of the ashes,She rose like a Phoenix,As if nothing had ever touched her

Never be an artist that starts worshiping yourself or believe your little group is better than anyone outside of it. For, you are nothing more than a grain of sand on a hillside in this world of ours. Even Da Vinci’s work is only glanced at then scrolled past on a phone or computer these days. Climb down off your throne and become humble once more.

Her close friends have gathered.Lord, ain't it a shameGrieving togetherSharing the blame.But when she was dyingLord, we let her down.There's no use cryin'It can't help her now.The party's all overDrink up and go home.It's too late to love herAnd leave her alone.Just say she was someoneLord, so far from homeWhose life was so lonesomeShe died all aloneWho dreamed pretty dreamsThat never came trueLord, why was she bornSo black and blue?Oh, why was she bornSo black and blue?Epitaph (Black And Blue) Written by: Kris KristoffersonNote: "Epitaph" is about Janis Joplin.

Winter is already a lost shape, forgottenin the ground. Instead, here is Springwith all the grace of a womansmoothing out her apron.

Language is fossil Poetry.

The murder of a child has no justification, even if the bombs have missed their mark.

She thought men were saviors......And she looked for more in them than what they were...Only to rescue herself from those she wished would rescue her...And isn't that the most tragic lie...The lie where we tell what we wished were true and believe it...?She had an artificial memory, a prosthesis to a past that never was...She was like a party that no one ever went to...Like a cure...without a disease...And isn't that the greatest fear of all...to be ready with the answersto questions that no one asks anymore?

I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

The trip to Mars can only be understood through Black Americans. I say, the trip to Mars can only be understood through Black Americans.

I'm a tad insane, but I promise you won't forget me.

Kiss her gypsy soul and love her for the wild rose she is.

Evil is not good's absence but gravity'severlasting bedrock and its fatal chainsinert, violent, the suffrage of our days.

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.

Music is poetry in motion.