Poetry Quotes - Page 112

Because I found the strength to do the things I believe in, and the will to stop doing the things I don't believe in.So I have discovered what it means, to be at peace.

A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.

Living is the opposite of poetry. Poetry is the recollection of living, or, more often than not, the lament of having not lived. Or worse yet, merely the contemplation of living. My advice to you, Ms. Harper, is this: Live. And keep living. And never stop to look back to write about what you have lived and observed and overcome, lest you turn into a pillar of salt. This desert life is already full of such monoliths.

But no matte what kind of an understanding is adopted, whether associated with positivism, which asserts that the truth can only be reached by trial and error, or rationalism, which asserts that everything can be explained and grasped by reason, whether the perspective of romanticism, which overemphasizes imagination and sensitivity, or an approach based on ardent naturalism, whether based on realism, which aims to describe everything as it is including its shortcomings, or a curiosity-raising approach such as surrealism, whether idealism, which asserts that there is nothing real but ideas, or cubism, which asserts that there is nothing real but instead of direct description, or some other such current or perspective, that is not true poetry.

There are those times when you need to push negative people aside, give fear a swift kick in the ass and fire up your dreams.

HEARTWORKEach day is born with a sunriseand ends in a sunset, the same way weopen our eyes to see the light, and close them to hear the dark.You have no control overhow your story begins or ends.But by now, you should know thatall things have an ending.Every spark returns to darkness.Every sound returns to silence.And every flower returns to sleepwith the earth.The journey of the sunand moon is predictable.But yours, is your ultimateART.

In every possibility of a mind May you travel, yet not blind. As a head filled with imagination, Goes a heart full of gold creation, It's never late to have a dream. Nor is it so far away as it seems, And, like a rearview mirror reveals, Thus a fantasy soon becomes real. It may be closer than it appears. Or at least it will show up clear. Never give up a dream for fear!

And death shall have no dominion.Under the windings of the seaThey lying long shall not die windily;Twisting on racks when sinews give way,Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;Faith in their hands shall snap in two,And the unicorn evils run them through;Split all ends up they shan't crack;And death shall have no dominion.

Oblivion cures the old wounds.

I understood the ominous sky because it was so much like you, and I was the sun always willing to burn for our love.

holding a tiny dixie cup in my hand makes me feel like a giant human being that can crush things

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bedAnd sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.(I think I made you up inside my head.)

But he who feels too much,He soars in angels’ tears of joy...

I always deemed myself a one chance person, if you hurt me or betray me, then I'm done with you. As I grew older and the scars of wisdom imprinted on my soul and chest, I realized a second chance took a monumental amount of strength and some people deserve a chance to right their wrongs. Now, I would gladly allow another the opportunity to cauterize their wounds at the risk of ripping open my tight-knit scars. I would bleed for you and feel alive rather than watch with cold eyes as you decay.

To be wild as the waves;enshrinedby the vastness—our cosmic immemorial.Unsettled as the forest.An indomitable flickeramidst worldviews,of jaded crownsand romantic ash.

Books connect us readers to what we cannot see but imagine, an intangible sort of wonder and magic.

I collect my thoughts, I choose my words, Whenever I decide to talk to you.But...I feel like a dumb, without a tongue,Whenever I reach in front of you.I wonder why it happens to me?even when my feelings are genuine and true.

We must remember that there is a great difference between a myth and a miracle. A myth is the idealization of a fact. A miracle is the counterfeit of a fact. There is the same difference between a myth and a miracle that there is between fiction and falsehood -- between poetry and perjury. Miracles belong to the far past and the far future. The little line of sand, called the present, between the seas, belongs to common sense to the natural.

Criticism is like politics: if you don't make your own you are by default accepting the status quo and are finally yourself responsible for whatever the status quo does to you.

Oh,' said a very white body as it threw a wrist watch to the ground which broke without attracting anyone's attention, 'Oh, how can anyone not love poetry, natural machines, large white houses, the brilliance of steel, crimes and wild passions?

If people read poetry, they would be happier.

I'm two days away from day after tomorrowCounting the hours to my upcoming sorrow Suddenly I lookinto the eyes of my childThen all sadness goneas I smile the way she smiled

When the world is too much, create your own. I do it every day.

I am a master wordsmith. I have the ability to bend words at will and invoke feelings with the stroke of my pen. But I'm yet to master the art of finding the right words to describe what happens in my heart when I see you.

Maybe love was meant to save us from ourselves.

Poetry led me by the hand out of madness.

We're only lucky enough to see the wonders of nature's canyons because they're gracious enough to show us the places they've been damaged.

at first when the rain fell from the sky so wide and deepit smelled like sage, my favorite smellI went up on the plateau to watch it cometo see the gifts it always broughtbut this rain changed from blue to black and leftnothing.

That last bit of hope always lingered as a stubborn thread. Every time I would try to cut it I would feel it... a pulse. My pulse. My blood is hope.

With callused handsi tastedthe softness of the moonin the coldest windsi discoveredmy soul's warmest fireplacein the roughnessof his stubblethe tenderest love.

Arrival in the world is really a departure and that, which we call departure, is only a return.

The deeper thought is, the taller it becomes.

What's not there is.

My head is full of fireand grief and my tongueruns wild, piercedwith shards of glass.

If movements were a spark every dancer would desire to light up in flames.

He knows he will be born again, And start fresh anew.

If I tear the sun from the sky and bring all the stars cascading down, would that line of your lips curve to a smile or a frown? With my hands burnt to a crisp and prosthetics in their place, would you hold me close and allow comfort in your embrace? If I fashioned a band from that sun and those stars, would you kiss these lines on my flesh? These irrevocable scars? I've fashioned for you this band of infinite light! Yet upon your finger it is not nearly so bright... You are my stars, sun and light. You are blazing fire in hopeless night. You are a reflection of perfection if my soul stood a mirror. Your affection is my infection, if only you could be nearer. You stand as a darling of your race, while I lay as an emotion with a face. What I sought and seek is not easily found, Yet from your lips escapes the perfect sound. My name and yours, yours and mine, Not even softest silk could be so fine. And yet, I see you standing there, Indecisive and fiddling with your hair. Your eyes are downward cast and your tears and my tears flow, What I would do to see them glow…and for you to know.

I read somewhere that dedications are like coded love letters, but I always seem to lay us out bare.Sorry for the poems.

Listen, children:Your father is dead.From his old coatsI'll make you little jackets;I'll make you little trousersFrom his old pants.There'll be in his pocketsThings he used to put there,Keys and penniesCovered with tobacco;Dan shall have the penniesTo save in his bank;Anne shall have the keysTo make a pretty noise with.Life must go on,Though good men die;Anne, eat your breakfast;Dan, take your medicine;Life must go on;I forget just why.

No reprimand in the mirrorSlow walk to LiberiaSlow dance across the SaharaSlow unraveling of gray matter

Poetry is nothing if it exists only in books. One has to find it in one's own life.

Absolute is a game with only one player where Absolute forgets itself so it would have a reason to fulfill the motion while returning.

TO A GIRAFFE If it is unpermissible, in fact fatal to be personal and undesirable to be literal—detrimental as well if the eye is not innocent-does it mean that one can live only on top leaves that are small reachable only by a beast that is tall?— of which the giraffe is the best example— the unconversational animal. When plagued by the psychological, a creature can be unbearable that could have been irresistible; or to be exact, exceptional since less conversational than some emotionally-tied-in-knots animal. After all consolations of the metaphysical can be profound. In Homer, existence is flawed; transcendence, conditional; “the journey from sin to redemption, perpetual.

Joy is not the satisfied contemplation of an accomplished result, the emotion of victory, the satisfaction of having succeeded. It is the sign of an energy that is deftly deployed, it is a free affirmation: everything comes easy. Joy is an activity: executing with ease something difficult that has taken time to master, asserting the faculties of the mind and the body. Joys of thought when it finds and discovers, joys of the body when it achieves without effort. That is why joy, unlike pleasure, increases with repetition, and is enriched. When you are walking, joy is a basso continuo. Locally, of course, you may run into effort and difficulty. You will also find immediate moments of contentment: a proud gaze backwards to contemplate the long steep plunge of the slope behind you. Those satisfactions, though, too often present an opportunity to reintroduce quantities, scores, figures (which track? how long? what altitude?). And walking becomes a competition. That is why expeditions in high mountain country (conquering peaks, each one a challenge) are always slightly impure: because they give rise to narcissistic gratification. What dominates in walking, away from ostentation and showing off, is the simple joy of feeling your body in the most primitively natural activity.

Two such as you with such a master speedCannot be parted nor be swept awayFrom one another once you are agreedThat life is only life forevermoreTogether wing to wing and oar to oar

Karibu, dada wangu. Hapa, wewe ni nyumbani. Welcome, my sister. Here, you are home. Home. And to this home, may you always return.

God always have a perfect way for every imperfect situations.

But neither money nor machines can create. They shuttle tokens of energy, but they do not transform. A civilization based on them puts people out of touch with their creative powers.

we talk of plans that are going to happen.we talk of the future, as if we know we will last.there is a sort of comfort in that.

Let your heart dance with pen and paperNow fill the paper with dancing letters.

All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.

I define influence simply as literary love, tempered by defense. The defenses vary from poet to poet. But the overwhelming presence of love is vital to understanding how great literature works.

I wished upon the moon one night, bewitched by how it shone so white. While staring up with some excite my eyes beheld a wondrous sight!  The moon so lustrous and white transformed into an armored knight who caused me just a moments fright when he jumped down from such a height.  No more a soft, celestial light, he was my lover, day and night.   This caused the world a serious plight.  How harsh a sting and deep the bite inflicted on the world, alright, to lose their blackest-hour light.  And so I've come to set things right, to offer up without a fight my lover wished for one clear night.  I hold him close.  He hugs me tight, then climbs again to heaven's height to glow a bluer shade of bright.  I stare at my beloved knight, not wanting to be impolite, and in my heart with all my might I wish a wish that isn't right.  Now and then the world still spites a shadowless and moonless night when we steal softly out of sight to hold each other 'til daylight and share in lovers true delight.

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes, don’t regret those. Not the nights you called god names and cursed your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,b chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness. You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here. Regret none of it, not one of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing, when the lights from the carnival rides were the only stars you believed in, loving them for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved. You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake, ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

Statesmen are grocers, ambitious clowns.

My heart can feel the softness of a starOnly when the moon stays afar I lay my mind on the pillow of skyWhere sleep dares not ever to pry

Gargoyles sat on the battlements- lean they were and the same hideous damp grey as the stone. They looked at her with hollow eyes and rattled their silver chains. They had wings of bats or wings or birds, most of them, and licked their beaks or teeth with forked or double tongues. Two paced restlessly before their platforms; others whined or picked their claws or groomed their mangy fur or feathers or lizard skin or scales.

The grain of evil seed had been sown in the heart of Adam from the beginning, and how much ungodliness had it brought up unto this time? and how much shall it yet bring forth until the time of threshing come?

Seulement la terre qui obéit,sait bien qu'elle tourne en rond,tandis que nous vers l'infininous précipitons.Translation:But the obedient Earth well knowsthat she moves round and round,whereas we hurtle downtoward infinity.

Focus on the end, not the beginning- on the beginning not the end- The process proceeds in the inner dimension.