Poetry Quotes - Page 107

Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.

Why do I love poetry? It's more than word play, less about the pay. Let's just say that for the first time in along while I stopped running, stared back at my darkest worst and said, 'Come here, you belong with me

Horse[Man you will find herea new representation of the universeat its most poetic and most modernMan man man man man manGive yourself up to this art where the sublimedoes not exclude charmand brilliancy does not blur the nuanceit is now or never the momentto be sensitive to poetry for it dominatesall dreadfullyGuillaume Apollinaire]

I would not come in.I meant not even if asked,And I hadn't been.

O Stunden in der Kindheit,da hinter den Figuren mehr als nurVergangnes war und vor uns nicht die Zukunft.

Dark is the world’s night without you my love,

For the past thirty years or so, much American poetry has been marked by an earnestness that rejects the comic. This has nothing to do with seriousness. The comic can be very serious. The trouble with the earnest is that it seeks to be commended. It seeks to be praised for its intention more than for what it is saying.

The gates of hell are open night and day;Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:But to return, and view the cheerful skies,In this the task and mighty labor lies.

Now goes under, and I watch it go under, the sunThat will not rise again.Today has seen the setting, in your eyes cold and senseless as the sea,Of friendship better than bread, and of bright charityThat lifts a man a little above the beasts that run.That this could be!That I should live to seeMost vulgar Pride, that stale obstreperous clown,So fitted out with purple robe and crownTo stand among his betters! Face to faceWith outraged me in this once holy place,Where Wisdom was a favoured guest and huntedTruth was harboured out of danger,He bulks enthroned, a lewd, an insupportable stranger!I would have sworn, indeed I swore it:The hills may shift, the waters may decline,Winter may twist the stem from the twig that bore it,But never your love from me, your hand from mine.Now goes under the sun, and I watch it go under.Farewell, sweet light, great wonder!You, too, farewell,-but fare not well enough to dreamYou have done wisely to invite the night before the darkness came.

anyone who has no feelings for animals has a dead heart.

Poetry contains few words but tells much. Its beauty is that by being condensed it is rich in meaning and open to various interpretations. Unlike prose, there is no boundary to poetry. There is nothing concrete or black and white. Poetry is mutable; it is transformative. Poetry is the alchemy of hearts. And what cannot be said in prose can sometimes be only said through poetry.

Everything on earth has happened before,nothing is new,but woe to the loverswho fail to discover a fresh blossomin every future kiss.

Lift up your eyes unto mine air and see the love floating there for I am Paradise and I am everywhere.

It was her chaos that made her beautiful. 

once I trained for the Olympics but panic is not a sport

Fuck I hate fucksWho think they’re so fucking greatThey know everything about fucking,When they’re just fucking fucks fucking!And no one changes the fucking worldWhen they keep fucking to another fuck’s fuck.

It is true that a mathematician who is not somewhat of a poet, will never be a perfect mathematician.

A badly written novel can always be shortened to a poem.

Sound.Noisethe air employs.Melodies sweet.Tweet, tweet, tweet.Soft. Loud.A roaring crowd.Cluck. Caw. Crow.Tet, tet. Tis, tis.Guttural growl.Harrowing howl.Drip, drip, drip.Tap, tap, tap.Moan and groan.Endless drone.Ding, dang, dong.A church bell song.Vibrations in my earto hear.Sound.

It was her laughter that made me love her. Her shy inappropriate madness is what made her beautiful.

We do not play on Graves—Because there isn't Room—Besides—it isn't even—it slantsAnd People come—And put a Flower on it—And hang their faces so—We're fearing that their Hearts will drop—And crush our pretty play—And so we move as farAs Enemies—away—Just looking round to see how farIt is—Occasionally—

I have a sickness doctors can't cure,Inexorably pulling me to the well of my destruction,Consented to be a sacrifice, killed for her love,Eager, like the drunk gulping wine mixed with poison,Shameless were those my nights,Yet my soul loved them beyond all passion.

The same that oft-times hath charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

It comes down to this: we're pieces of equipmentTo be counted and signed for. On occasion some of us break down,And those parts which can't be salvagedAre replaced with other GI parts, that's all.

I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.

Chance is your godThough you're falling free you will land hard

she lived with hurricane eyes and fell in love with the way the waves collapsed against her cheeks.

Either you will be you or you will not be at all.

Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

You'll live through my words and my pictures, and I'll live somewhere the skies are blue.

Dance with the waves of sea and sing with the sky,touch the sands with love and let your mind fly high.

Authors can write stories without people assuming that they are autobiographies, but songwriters and poets are often considered to be the characters in their works. I like Michelangelo's vision, 'I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.

I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.

I have licked the fire and danced in the ashes of every bridge I ever burned. I fear no hell from you.

When African slave Phillis Wheatley wrote poetry, 18 men came to assess whether that was possible.

The poem is the point at which our strength gave out.

Better Associations:If you associate yourself with a change maker,Your life will by all means become better.You will wink at challenges and begin to think.In times of frustrations, you will not sink.If you miss the way to a great destination,Just look for those going to that direction.Mount the shoulders of a giant believerAnd you will become a great achiever.People around you determine your speed.They will influence the growth of your seed.People you are around will decide your strengthAnd also the figure of your success’ lengthI trust you want to become a better you.It matters, what your associates plan to do.It depends, where your companions want to go.It relies on what your friends believe and know.Quit friendships that build you nothingChoose friends who bring out of you somethingOne iron sharpens another ironGo along with great people and ride on.

First, I thought, almost despairing,This must crush my spirit now;Yet I bore it, and am bearing-Only do not ask me how.

Stand up upon the right side, and I shall expound the similitude unto thee.

I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.I don't don't know why know why,I simply know that I I Iam am inclined to say to saya lot a lot this way this way-I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.My mom my mom gets mad gets mad,it irritates my dad my dad,it drives them up a tree a tree,that's what they tell they tell me me-I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.It gets me in a jam a jam,but that's the way I am I am,in fact I think it's neat it's neatto to to to repeat repeat-I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.

A poet is someone who can use a single image to send a universal message.

If one billion of you watch and do not intercede as one million of you assent to the one thousand who participate in the murder of a child, then one billion of you are a billion times guilty.

A star needs a star.

Maybe I should stop while I'm aheadNay, I swim with sea-demons no sweet summer tuned radioover my sunless desertscapehow does it burn without the sun?

In trying to be perfect, He perfected the art of anonymity, Became imperceptible And arrived nowhere from nowhere.

Listen.I will lose myselfif it means I can find you.

Those with wild hearts love biglove fiercelylove with every fiberof their feral being.

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

When you cried, I learned what helplessness tastes like. Because all I could do was swallow.

Poetry is the royal essence of beauty.

Winter's last rain and a light I don't recognize through the trees and I come back in my mind to the man who made me suck his cock when I was seven, in sunlight, between boxcars. I thought I could leave him standing there in the years, half smile on his lips,small hands curled into small fists,but after he finished, he held my hand in hisas if astonished, until the houses were visiblejust beyond the railyard. He held my hand but before that he slapped me hard on the face when I would not open my mouth for him. I do not want to say his whole hips slammed into me, but they did, and a black wave washed over my brain, changing me so I could not move among my people in the old way.On my way home I stopped in the churchyard to try to find a way to stay alive. In the branches a red-wing flitted, warning me. In the rectory, Father preparedthe body and the blood for mass but God could not save me from a mouthful of cum. That afternoon some lives turned away from the light. He taught me how to move my tongue around. In his hands he held my head like a lover. Say it clearly and you make it beautiful, no matter what.

...what the Man-Moth fears most he must do..

Some poems are written great, some poems are written swell. But then there are poems that could win a prize in Hell.

Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.

Hanged"I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,the point is I hanged myself today and I’m stillhanging.I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping thatsomeone will come home and cut me downbut then I keep remembering that if I knewsomeone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bitironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I readsomewhere that, like, anything funny is,in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if it'sfunny or not. I don’t think my brain owns“funny”, you know?I feel taller. I like that.I’ve never been away from my shadow forthis long. It had always clung to my feet,parting momentarily for a quick dive intothe swimming pool. But never for fivehours. I like it. There’s three feet of spacebetween my two and the floor.I wanted something this morning. I may bestuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.

Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.

Poetry is a hook for memory

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.

It is weird to me on how people will come to church frequently and have absolutely no desire or intention to change anything about their life based on what they experienced in the church.

I heard a thousand blended notesWhile in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man.