Poetry Quotes - Page 109

We flatter those we scarcely know,We please the fleeting guest;And deal full many a thoughtless blow,To those who love us best.

Let us remember to always rediscover one anotherbecause we are forever changing.

something genuine like a mark in a toilet, graced with guts and gutted with grace

Hands burn for a stone, a bomb, to shiver down the glass. Nothing's changed.

Nature, it seems, is the popular namefor milliards and milliards and milliardsof particles playing their infinite gameof billiards and billiards and billiards.

Sometimes, looking at the many books I have at home, I feel I shall die before I come to the end of them, yet I cannot resist the temptation of buying new books. Whenever I walk into a bookstore and find a book on one of my hobbies — for example, Old English or Old Norse poetry — I say to myself, “What a pity I can’t buy that book, for I already have a copy at home.

Did I love her? No. I obsessed over her completely. And thank heavens I was obsessed. Obsession, infatuation, is something short-lived. A sweet fever dream that leaves you exhausted from the high. Love is perpetual. Love is an entire world compared to that other form of mania people mistake love for. If love is loving the reality of a person, obsession is idealising the fantasy of another. Did I love her? No. Never. But I was utterly obsessed.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustain'd and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."Thanatopsis

The wall between writing and painting is just good grammar. Moderation in moderation. Fun is scary with a happy ending. Just love. If love doesn’t transform that which annoys you, it will be easier to tolerate.

I lose faith in mathematics, logical and rigid. What with those that even zero doesn’t accept?

Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos, el que lo perdiò todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.

The day she realized they were never meant to be, is the day she now calls her - Birthday.

Maybe if I could slip into Sylvia's mind, sort out the spices in her rack, alphabetize them and dust them off. Maybe then I'd understand how it's the little things that pull you under.

Without thinking, I knelt in the grass, like someone meaning to pray. When I tried to stand again, I couldn't move,my legs were utterly rigid. Does grief change you like that?Through the birches, I could see the pond.The sun was cutting small white holes in the water.I got up finally; I walked down to the pond. I stood there, brushing the grass from my skirt, watching myself,like a girl after her first loverturning slowly at the bathroom mirror, naked, looking for a sign.But nakedness in women is always a pose.I was not transfigured. I would never be free.

Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed.

Hear me, and I will instruct thee; hearken to the thing that I say, and I shall tell thee more.

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill.

I keep breaking things, as if to see what's going on inside of me.

Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove.O no, it is an ever-fixed markThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand'ring bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be t

you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.

Stop praying to God to change your marriage or your finances because you might end up seeing that you are the one that need the change not your marriage or finances.

If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.

I write to forget the days that broke me into a million nights.

creativity keeps the world alive, yet, everyday we are asked to be ashamed of honoring it, wanting to live our lives as artists. i’ve carried the shame of being a ‘creative’ since i came to the planet; have been asked to be something different, more, less my whole life. thank spirit, my wisdom is deeper than my shame, and i listened to who i was. i want to say to all the creatives who have been taught to believe who you are is not enough for this world, taught that a life of art will amount to nothing, know that who we are, and what we do is life. when we create, we are creating the world. remember this, and commit.

My heart was full of softening showers,I used to swing like this for hours,I did not care for war or death,I was glad to draw my breath.

Dancing falls into the same category as poetry for a woman – it equals dreaming, which may inspire thoughts about such banned topics as love and desire.

I see your picture and in that picture I didn't see you.

but in the cityin which I love you,no one comes, no onemeets me in the brick clefts;in the wedged dark,no finger touches me secretly, no mouthtastes my flawless salt,no one wakens the honey in the cells, finds the hummingin the ribs, the rich business in the recesses;hulls clogged, I continue laden

And you’re a tall drink of water because we’re so fucking thirsty

When she left me I stood out in the thunderstorm, hoping to be destroyed by lightning. It missed, first left, then right.

Poetry rhymes, a song our souls need to nourish upon. Poetry is a drum, a sound our bodies wish to have. Poetry is organized, a reading our eyes wish to view. Poetry is refined, a structure our moral selves seek. Poetry is civil, instigating the world to remain sane. Poetry is not ordinary, but it needs the ordinary eyes to continue to be the interesting art form of expression. Poetry is like a child communicating, who later grows to be an adult communicating in prose.

Poems are lenses, mirrors, and X-ray machines.

Poetry's work is the clarification and magnification of being.

Tell the truth, but tell it slant.

... imaginary gardens with real toads in them ...... if you demand on one hand,the raw material of poetry inall its rawness andthat which is on the other handgenuine, then you are interested in poetry.

I negate this distance with / what it would be / to be shining you.

In my mind he is a demon and a godand I blame him, I blame him, I blame himfor the world I created on my ownas much as the one he built around me.

As she left the cold arena Angel had to laugh,Beaten by that of a wisp girl and her subliming cunning craft.—Jove lay silent in his orbit; brooding, deep, dreamless forweep,And faithful dog Sirius rising tracked behind on dusk’s purpling adeep.ttScratched he his chin; counted the cold and early evening stars,He had miles to go that night, they being so very far.Only the music of the wint’ring span,Vanished he away in the shimmering land. . . . . . .

I swear that girl was born with a pen in her hand, the moon in her hair and stars in her soul.

Higgledy piggledy, my black hen,She lays eggs for gentlemen.Gentlemen come every dayTo count what my black hen doth lay.If perchance she lays too many,They fine my hen a pretty penny;If perchance she fails to lay,The gentlemen a bonus pay.Mumbledy pumbledy, my red cow,She’s cooperating now.At first she didn’t understandThat milk production must be planned;She didn’t understand at firstShe either had to plan or burst,But now the government reportsShe’s giving pints instead of quarts.Fiddle de dee, my next-door neighbors,They are giggling at their labors.First they plant the tiny seed,Then they water, then they weed,Then they hoe and prune and lop,They they raise a record crop,Then they laugh their sides asunder,And plow the whole caboodle under.Abracadabra, thus we learnThe more you create, the less you earn.The less you earn, the more you’re given,The less you lead, the more you’re driven,The more destroyed, the more they feed,The more you pay, the more they need,The more you earn, the less you keep,And now I lay me down to sleep.I pray the Lord my soul to takeIf the tax-collector hasn’t got it before I wake.

Some people walk into our life and make us fall in love with our self.

Distance, the dissonance insurmountable,would be not the end,but a magnet.When fingertips kiss,they imprint and cement something,that cannot be disintegrated. Time becomes a phantom,the wind becomes an anchor,and old dreams- blankets of warmth.Lull with me, Lady,there is no greater escape.Love and war, even when buttered on toast,still makes for the breakfast of champions.

I don’t want safety or guarantees—I want a life worth living.I want to jump off a skyscraperAnd fashion a parachute on the way downOut of my fears and trepidationsBecause sometimes survivalIsn’t the most important thingAnd survivingIsn’t the same as living.

Give me a life time by the fire, with a book in my hand, nothing more and I will tell you a great story.

Gloomy roomimmersed in a scentof modern cowardsfilled withshapeless creaturessitting in silencebecause they havenothing to sayFake plastic faceswith a grimaceof disappointmentpainted on themAre we stuck on holdexpecting our turnin a waiting roomof so-calledlost generation?

Language is fossil poetry

Books, books, books!I had found the secret of a garret roomPiled high with cases in my father’s name;Piled high, packed large,--where, creeping in and outAmong the giant fossils of my past,Like some small nimble mouse between the ribsOf a mastodon, I nibbled here and thereAt this or that box, pulling through the gap,In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,The first book first. And how I felt it beatUnder my pillow, in the morning’s dark,An hour before the sun would let me read!My books!

I write these words to touch you,My love, In places my hands can only dream of.

A chronic poet should always be an inveterate nature-lover.

Wings can only flyas long as the bird flies Soul blackens when you put on vestment of lies White candle wax criesfor ignitable wickJealous people burnto make your heart feel sick

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

Writing is a bitch. It's an itch that I love to scratch.

There is no where that life problem can take you that God's presence cannot reach you. There is nothing that people can do to you that can keep God from getting to you.

she stuck a bookmark in my heart and walked away

Jag föddes för att kränga rosor på de dödas avenyer

Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.

Oh I must pass nothing byWithout loving it much,The raindrop try with my lips,The grass with my touch;For how can I be sureI shall see againThe world on the first of MayShining after the rain?

Drinking the energy of the universeBreathing along with the CosmosWith each breathI am rebornInto a brand new existence.

Songs live longer than kingdoms. 

But the sun will rise the day after tomorrowA millennium without us silences our last echoTo tiny fragments even our plastics are reducedIn Eden Reincarnate all life but ours is renewed