Poetry Quotes - Page 102

The Perfect Man.The perfect man is gentle,Never cruel or mean.He has an beautiful smile,And keeps his face so clean.The perfect man likes children,And will raise them by your side.He will be a good father,As well as an good husband to his bride.The perfect man loves cooking ,Cleaning and vacuuming too.He will do anything in his power,To convey his feelings of love on you.The perfect man is sweet ,Writing poetry from your name.He's an best freind to your mother,And kisses away your pain.He has never made you cry,Or hurt you in any way.Oh f*** this stupid poem,The perfect man is GAY!

Here’s to the “so-so-ing” it.Here’s to the working since I was 14 in a smoke clouded day. Here’s to saying I could stay until the forms were faxed.Here’s to driving home past dark and dozing off the road.Here’s to no over time.Here’s to the long line to management.Here’s to ALREADY DONE THAT!Here’s to quitting, saying I’m through, saying I can’t compete for your leftover lean cuisine. Here’s to art. Here’s to freedom. Here’s to saying God gave me every penny and knowing it’s true. Here’s to the next 40 years with you.Here’s to the new.— Adrianna Stepiano

Show me a little bit of your soul under all those pretty words you spill, and I promise you I will drink every last drop.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

Literature will save me it's the only certainty i am sure of.

Chainschains that hold me to the groundchains that keep me solidly boundchains that tether my heart to youchains that only one truth...

Thoreau: ‘The West of which I speak is but another name for the Wild; and what I have been preparing to say is, that in Wildness is the preservation of the world.’ That is why walking leads to a total loss of interest in what is called – laughably no doubt – the ‘news’, one of whose main features is that it becomes old as soon as it is uttered. Once caught in the rhythm, Thoreau says, you are on the treadmill: you want to know what comes next. The real challenge, though, is not to know what has changed, but to get closer to what remains eternally new. So you should replace reading the morning papers with a walk. News items replace one another, become mixed up together, are repeated and forgotten. But the truth is that as soon as you start walking, all that noise, all those rumours, fade out. What’s new? Nothing: the calm eternity of things, endlessly renewed.

I will never take what is never given, but I will receive to what is given.

History is a hermaphrodite with many distinguished lovers. We are neither mysteries nor strangers but the living breath of revelation made flesh by the unrestrained desires of a free and universal love. Universal me. Universal you.”--from Past Present and Future are One

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!

Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea.

our foundation is rockybecause we made a home in each other’s skin.the damage is beginning to show.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.

When she smiled at me, I felt unborn poems stirring within.

Be my lover between two wars waged in the mirror, she said.I don't want to return now to the fortress of my father's house.Take me to your vineyard.Let me meet your mother.Perfume me with basil water.Arrange me on silver dishes, comb me, imprison me in your name,let love kill me.

Everything we hold will soon elapse,as we’ll sleep through one dreamless night;but rising again to this dream, whether we’ll behiding behind our darkness or this borrowed light?- Thou little fool

....my sacred landscape is the foothills of the stars - I go there often to sleep ...

How is it that hearts hold on to memories with the strength of hope and possibilities.

... those who seek the lost Lord will find traces of His being and beauty in all that men have made, from music and poetry and sculpture to the gingerbread men in the pâtisseries, from the final calculation of the pure mathematician to the first delighted chalk drawing of a small child.

May youalways haveopenbreezy spacesin your mind.

All around us is a nothing that stretches on for infinity. We humans can barely comprehend that. If we comprehend it we are rarely pleased.

Here they have no time for the fine gracesof poetry, unless it freely growsin deep compulsion, like water in the well,woven into the texture of the soilin a strong pattern.

Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.

I'd rather die fighting over great poets than over gods.

Music is the universal language of mankind.

I've never seen beauty so devastatingas in the linesthat trace our hopeand fall from the stars.

It's not what you go through that makes you strong: it is how you handle the situation that gives you strength.

The German language is so sonorous, isn't it? Beautiful language...the language of poetry. Angry, angry poetry.

The greatest violence, and the greatest threat to humanity, is the growth of MONEY.

You are her mother.Why did you not warn her,hold her like a rotting boatand tell her that men will not love herif she is covered in continents,if her teeth are small colonies,if her stomach is an islandif her thighs are borders?What man wants to lie downand watch the world burnin his bedroom?Your daughter ’s face is a small riot,her hands are a civil war,a refugee camp behind each ear,a body littered with ugly things.But God,doesn’t she wearthe world well?

No one understands now. Those who couldhear a song this deeply vanished long ago.

You are the greatest treasure if you are your greatest treasure treasure

Talk to me in poetry. / It is all I understand.

i sometimes think i'm too in love with alone. who could i love more than this peace?

We are the kind of Love Story that keeps souls awake at night and causes hearts to have stage fright.

Love what is simple and beautiful. These are the essentials.

You were just another stranger in the room,In a room full of bodies, I was attracted to you,I became your tiny dancer,I became everything to you,Little did you know,That I'm just a dancer, Not your fool.

To suffer together is to suffer with beauty...

O God bid my poor body to ariseOn that bright day triumphant through the skies!

In an endless silence even screams sound silent.

your smile.is the ultimategolden dream.all the poemsin the worldare waking up from.

The blue of daylightfades and chills as the sun sinksbeneath clouds of fire.

Wherefore the present age is given up as a reproach to the heathen, and for what cause the people whom thou hast loved is given over unto ungodly nations?!

How rarely these few years, as work keeps up aloof,Or fares, or one thing or another,How we had days to spend under our parents' roof;Myself, my sister, and my brother.All five of us will die; to reckon from the pastThis flesh and blood is unforgiving.What's hard is that just one of us will be the lastTo bear it all and go on living.

How—I didn't know anyword for it—how "unlikely". . .How had I come to be here,like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn't?

How do I learn to speakwhen silence is all I know?

If you can't be the poet, be the poem.

We may feel bitterly how little our poems can do in the face of seemingly out of control technological power and seemingly limitless corporate greed, yet it has always been true that poetry can break isolation, show us to ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us kinship where all is represented as separa

Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

In the darkness and the snow, the street is emptyand it is just the night, the ice and me.

One word can turn into a book just as one poem should never be overlooked.

From whichever side I start, I think I am in an old place where others have been before me.

Could any State on Earth Immortall be,Venice by Her rare Goverment is She;Venice Great Neptunes Minion, still a Mayd,Though by the warrlikst Potentats assayed;Yet She retaines Her Virgin-waters pure,Nor any Forren mixtures can endure;Though, Syren-like on Shore and Sea, Her FaceEnchants all those whom once She doth embrace,Nor is ther any can Her bewty prizeBut he who hath beheld her with his Eyes:Those following Leaves display, if well observed,How she long Her Maydenhead preserved,How for sound prudence She still bore the Bell;Whence may be drawn this high-fetchd parallel,Venus and Venice are Great Queens in their degree,Venus is Queen of Love, Venice of Policie.

You lift your head, you’re on your way, but really just to be walking, to be out of doors. That’s it, that’s all, and you’re there. Outdoors is our element: the exact sensation of living there.

I want your scars, your darkness, your secrets. I want to see the interior of your soul.

A pear should come to the table popped with juice,Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On termsLike these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.

For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back, My heart goes sighing after swallows flown On sometime summer's unreturning track.

I hope that someday when I am gone, someone, somewhere, picks my soul up off of these pages and thinks, "I would have loved her.

We grooved together with a rhythm so beautiful that I could feel the moment turned into poetry.

Courage is more important than to be deceived by shallow victory waiting for a delayed defeat.