Poetry Quotes - Page 106

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

i am not a jealous person,but when i am with you,the thought of someone elsepulling your attention away from mekills me a little insideeach time.

Such was a poet and shall be and is-who'll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam's architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountain's heartbeat in his hand.

it is hard not to count the hoursi have left with you.it is hard to be here now--knowing everything between uswill come to an end.

If you have a strong stomachread on.

I wear the universe backwards. I imagine putting stars in my coffee, and sugar in the sky. I imagine going fishing in clouds, and watching the sun hide behind lakes. I'm too busy dancing with my imagination to even tip toe with reality for a second. They say I'm going mad. They're right.

Do not turn me intorestless watersif you cannot promiseto be my stream.

Man's panic does not produce God's power.....sometimes you need to pray before you post on social media.

An artist is identical with an anarchist,' he cried. 'You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.''So it is,' said Mr. Syme.'Nonsense!' said Gregory, who was very rational when any one else attempted paradox.

But my heart is an old house(the kind my mothergrew up in)hell to heat and cooland faulty in the wiringand though it’s nice to look atI have no businessinviting lovers in.

Brimming. That's what it is, I want to get to a place where my sentences enact brimming.

Another one of your quippy japes?

Love did not die. I still create your image to my heart every solitary night.

Idols of the injury,dug in behind the least understoodmotor plan information.The vile abomination temporal lobes andThe four loathsome memory walls andThe four reasoning, arithmetic beastsare found for all behind pain and planes.Portrayed as a house,Go in, function, cause blindness fromThe house's hearing spirit, judgment andThe court's four bronze woes andThe functioning brain lobe wings,Go in, hearing and perception,I dig under door fronts, pain and plans.

...the imagination works not so much through inspiration as through perseverance. One must slog through the false starts, spot the wrong words and hold out for the right ones, and above all, be vigilant about staying on the path of revision, no matter how uncomfortable or even painful the journey might become.

Moments caught in time. Simple memories spread out before me. Timeless reminders of how life goes on, even when it feels as if you cannot.

Git'er DoneThey beat their swords upon their shieldsTo no beast or man would they yield

In the biggest and the smallest I sleep but at the same place I stay.

I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry that is prose - words in their best order poetry - the best words in their best order.

Life without strife is a rose without thorns.Alive as one is thriving today towards tomorrow,Nowhere is the past but simply a school of memory.Dreams, wishes, goals then becomes a wheel of “wills,”Spirit of a unique being on each soul breathing.Care to ponder some matter or another?Awareness sliding towards discovery gliding…Peace, contentment, fulfillment,Enwrapped like a mirage enchantment.Soaring freely, excitingly, happily home-love-bound!Over precious moments in a breathing of a soul,Flowing high emotions, feelings, hearts in bliss.All around any season of one's existence, one asks: “Anyone out there? A heart of a soul that didn’t harden? A touch of a soul that didn’t hurt? A life of a soul that didn't love?”Sands of time, rough, warm, indefinite, simply spreading, transforming, mounting.Oasis of a soul from a desert journey, flourishing with endless beauty and security.Utmost bliss, fulfillment and contentment, under covers a struggling, hopeful soul,Laboring service, living justice, loving peace and tranquillity passed on to humanity!�

Fake is the new real,You gotta keep a lot a shit to yourself.

Ted: A fucking good poem is a weapon. It's-- and not like a--a popgun or something.- It's a bomb.It's like a bloody big bomb. Sylvia: That’s why they make childrenlearn them in school.They don't want them messing aboutwith them on their own. I mean, just imagineif a sonnet went off accidentally. Boom.

We love the imperfect shapes in nature and in the works of art, look for an intentional error as a sign of the golden key and sincerity found in true mastery.

On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.I wipe them away with a black woolly gloveAnd try not to notice I've fallen in loveOn Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.But the juke-box inside me is playing a songThat says something different. And when was it wrong?On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hairI am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.the head does its best but the heart is the boss-I admit it before I am halfway across

I came here to be for all and with all,and what I do today in my solitudewill be echoed tomorrow by the multitude.What I say now with one heartwill be said tomorrow by thousands of hearts...

The reason some people do not experience God in their life is the same reason that we do not notice that something is going wrong with our marriage untill we arrive in a divorce court or that something is wrong with our child until we got a phone call from the police station . Simply put....Because we do not pay attention

There is no Space or TimeOnly intensity, And tame thingsHave no immensity

Read a poem at a time, or two, or all, but give them time to sink into your heart. Read them again, read a portion, and stop and ponder. Visualize. Take it slow; let the poem show you what lies in your own heart. Let it fuel the words from within.

I have loved this world in ways it could never love me back.

To conquer fear, you must become fear.

He loved me, but in a lukewarm way. I needed scalding, but he loved in one temperature; tepid.

A lot we have in our head,But things of heart are not yet dead,They have done none, but just fled,Out of us, Forgotten, just been bled..

Saki says that youth is like hors d'oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don't notice it. When you've had them, you wish you'd had more hors d'oeuvres.

I?I walk alone;The midnight streetSpins itself from under my feet;My eyes shutThese dreaming houses all snuff out;Through a whim of mineOver gables the moon's celestial onionHangs high.IMake houses shrinkAnd trees diminishBy going far; my look's leashDangles the puppet-peopleWho, unaware how they dwindle,Laugh, kiss, get drunk,Nor guess that if I choose to blinkThey die.IWhen in good humour,Give grass its greenBlazon sky blue, and endow the sunWith gold;Yet, in my wintriest moods, I holdAbsolute powerTo boycott color and forbid any flowerTo be.IKnow you appearVivid at my side,Denying you sprang out of my head,Claiming you feelLove fiery enough to prove flesh real,Though it's quite clearAll your beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,From me."Soliloquy of the Solipsist", 1956

Behold, we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt last -- far off -- at last, to all,And every winter change to spring.

It got so bad that Al thoughtmaybe it washimso he went to a shrinkand askedand the shrink said,"you're one of the sanest menI've ever met."poor Al.that made him feelworse than ever.

The dark, cold grasp you took on me, has tangled me completely

i let you love me.i let you take care of me.i let you do things to meno one was allowed to do before.

I sit in my treeI sing like the birdsMy beak is my penMy songs are my poems.

Poets aren't very useful because they aren't consumeful or very produceful.

I dreamed in night vision; whiteflowers of nocturnalgun fire – day residue shot to hell. If I held my dreamsto a windowsill,sun would sievethrough my screams.

wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.

with each measured step,we knowthis earth is only as solidas we are.

[Short Talk on Sylvia Plath] Did you see her mother on television? She said plain, burned things. She said I thought it an excellent poem but it hurt me. She did not say jungle fear. She did not say jungle hatred wild jungle weeping chop it back chop it. She said self-government she said end of the road. She did not say humming in the middle of the air what you came for chop.

Failure: the renewable resource.

Promise me this. When you find yourself in need of inspiration, bypass the roses that will clamor aimlessly for attention. And focus on the souls who have actually 'lived' among the thorns.

In a world of lovelightning and rainbow are lovers now. They arc and strike upon the horizon of credence to rise above their cloudy vow

All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in chronology.

This is the way the world endsThis is the way the world endsThis is the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper.

The true poem rests between the words.

Watch carefully the magic that occurswhen you give a person enough comfort to just be themselves.

the worst thing," he told me,"is bitterness, people end up sobitter.

Look upward to himLook to him for everythingLook to him for answersLook to him for a listening ear

If my like for you was a football crowd, you’d be deaf ’cause of the roar. And if my like for you was a boxer, there’d be a dead guy lying on the floor. And if my like for you was sugar, you’d lose your teeth before you were twenty. And if my like for you was money, let’s just say you’d be spending plenty.

Every evening words, not stars, light the sky. No rest in life like life itself.

unrequited love is likekneeling on uncooked riceand waiting for the boiling water of his kissesto soften the painbut he never comes.

When we were kids I begged cupid to come and shoot me.

It was a scary thought. A man could be surrounded by poetry reading and not know it.

Memories of lost love they do enpain,Fleeting images of what once was never again to gain.Hold tight those memories that slip through the mind,ttttTo walk in those fields again with her—a dream divined.Oh to be with that lost Valkyrie forevermore again,To hold her hand delicate until the last world’s end.To be at peace once amore in deep loving soul,Husband to wife in embracing hold.tttHow he loved her so, but she was now gone,Leaf to the wind, heart tossed and tumbled torn.Memories like arrows stick deep—ohhh so deep,Shafts of pain and joy assail the soul’s lonely keep. --Angel-Heart, Ch. 22 Valley of the Damned

as some strings, untouched,sound when no one is speaking.So it was when love slipped inside us.