Poetry Quotes - Page 24

When the two become the oneAnd the inside outside, the outside inSo that the male be not male nor the female femaleThen will you see me.

My heart still speaks of our fire.

I think i should get love inked on my skin.Maybe that's the only way i am destined to keep it.

You are the language so universalyou are forgottenBe my linguistTurn meinto your words.

At Night on the High SeasAt night, when the sea cradles meAnd the pale star gleamLies down on its broad waves,Then I free myself whollyFrom all activity and all the loveAnd stand silent and breathe purely,Alone, alone cradled by the seaThat lies there, cold and silent, with a thousand lights.Then I have to think of my friendsAnd my gaze sinks into their eyes,And I ask each one, silent and alone:"Are you still mine?Is my sorrow a sorrow to you, my death a death?Do you feel from my love, my grief,Just a breath, just an echo?"And the sea peacefully gazes back, silent,And smiles: NOAnd no greetings and no answers come from anywhere.

(1)BEING A POETis like opening a car door& exposing yourself.(2)BEING A GOOD POETis like opening the door& exposing the passengeras well.

Of our conflicts with others we make rhetoric of our conflicts with ourselves we make poetry.

Poetry is another name for a person’s telling of the self, existence and what is beyond, and one’s own perceptions.

I have woken up…quite sloshedfrom night-mingled rainsa little drugged, by mountain fogsI have been kidnappedfor years....by a mere kiss.

The moon twangs its silver strings;The river swoons into town;The wind beds down in the pines,Covers itself with stars.

I was the first Chicano to write in complete sentences.

The harder you search the more troubled you become.

A poet should be so crafty with words that he is envied even for his pains.

We were not meant to read stories anymore. We were too busy writing our own.

sometimes it's hard to knowwhat todo.

in der Fußgängerzone kam Wind auf wie immer Wind aufkommt bei der Suche nach jenem richtigen Ort der sich stets weit entfernt zeigt, die Abfallpapiere am Boden verrutschten, mein Mantel flatterte, und, als wäre dies schon ein Grund mich selbst zu den Dingen zu zählen als wäre dies schon ein Grund blieb ich ungefragt stehen

Always dip your toe in the past before stepping into the future

Writing poetry is supernatural. Or, it should be.

Without nothing, everything would be nothing.

Poetry...... a place for the genuine,Hands that can grasp, eyesthat can dilate, hair that can rise

Another breath, left to translate

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

Icarus should have waited for nightfall,the moon would have never let him go.

When a poet settled down to write a poem, could he foresee the lines he would write? Did his head constantly spin with riddles and rhymes and was his only job to put them down? What if he couldn’t get them to make sense, and no one, not even the person he cared for most, could have pleasure in reading it? What would he do?

Wise is the one who flavors the future with some salt from the past. Becoming dust is no threat to the phoenix born from the ash.

It is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem,—a thought so passionate and alive that like the spirit of a plant or an animal it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing. The thought and the form are equal in the order of time, but in the order of genesis the thought is prior to the form.

Thoughts thoughts. Are they not mine?I think, I write, I type.Thoughts. Are they wise?Let truth be told in words, compiled together, create a page, a book. Thoughts. Are they master piece?Is it a prize winner?...An Alfred Nobel?Thoughts. Are they not mine? Gift of God?they are not mine.

I see all of us reading ourselves away from ourselves, straining in circles of light to find more light until the line of words becomes a trail of crumbs that we follow across a page of fresh snow

In Irena’s head the alcohol plays a double role: it frees her fantasy, encourages her boldness, makes her sensual, and at the same time it dims her memory. She makes love wildly, lasciviously, and at the same time the curtain of oblivion wraps her lewdness in an all-concealing darkness. As if a poet were writing his greatest poem with ink that instantly disappears.

You'd think hindsight would do us some goodBut all it does sometimesIs add glass to the kaleidoscope

[H]e initially conceived of Olivier as a man of the greatest promise destroyed by a fatal flaw, the unreasoning passion for a woman dissolving into violence, desperately weakening everything he tried to do. For how could learning and poetry be defended when it produced such dreadful results and was advanced by such imperfect creatures? At least Julien did not see the desperate fate of the ruined lover as a nineteenth-century novelist or a poet might have done, recasting the tale to create some appealing romantic hero, dashed to pieces against the unyielding society that produced him. Rather, his initial opinion -- held almost to the last -- was of Olivier as a failure, ruined by a terible weakness.

while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Remember: In poetry, each word is like a loaded gun; very heavy, and full of intent

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts;And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime.And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.

Thy heart had gone too far in this world, and think thou to comprehend the way of the most High?

Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may last!

Love can be such a mysterious muse and seductress... spinning her magical web of stardust and emotional euphoria. True love sang her siren song and we wrapped that song around us like the sweetest melody.

Mother Earth, one of my absolute favorite places......where the sounds, the energy, the beauty and the Life pounds into your every fiber of being, letting you Know that you are alive. I will always respect and honor this gift of creation that we call our home.

Lineation can make your break your poems.

No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd,But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world.

I have not encouraged talk about man’s holy privacy, although I do respect and defend man’s right to have it.

He'd been let down so oftenHis brow was on the floorBut then they foundA small hole in the groundAnd let him down some more

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

today my heart was ripped in twoone half for me, one half for you take a half and keep it neari have mine and will always be here crossing paths before the endonce a lover, forever a friend

When a great poet has lived certain things have been done once for all and cannot be achieved again.

I have always been a fire, and everyone I loved walked away as ashes, until I met a phoenix who was born to love flames.

Four years ago the clocks started turning back. I open my eyes and see nothing. I feel nothing below or above me. I feel the absence of things. The absence of my flesh, my bones, my body, my mind. All that is left is awareness. I see nothing but the absence of colour. It’s not a black darkness. It’s simply nothing. The interior of a black hole. I recall news of a black hole lingering along the edges of our solar system. All that time ago. Four years ago. When the clocks started turning back. I hear nothing. Until there is a something. A small thing. A voice. I listen. There are more voices. The sounds are human. How long has it been since I’ve heard a human? The sounds scratch along my now present attention. They carve into my hearing. They are horrid, wretched things. Voices screaming. Growing loud and desperate. How many voices? Billions. This is the birth of our species. We are born screaming. It’s all we know to do. We have screamed for eternity. Within this empty space.

The Plot Against The GiantFirst GirlWhen this yokel comes maundering,Whetting his hacker,I shall run before him,Diffusing the civilest odorsOut of geraniums and unsmelled flowers.It will check him.Second GirlI shall run before him,Arching cloths besprinkled with colorsAs small as fish-eggs.The threadsWill abash him.Third GirlOh, la...le pauvre!I shall run before him,With a curious puffing.He will bend his ear then.I shall whisperHeavenly labials in a world of gutturals.It will undo him.

Healing is your right, your responsibility and the risk you can't afford not to take.

And the testicles of the fathers hang down like old lace

I don’t need your praiseto survive. I was here first, before you were here, beforeyou ever planted a garden.And I’ll be here when only the sun and moonare left, and the sea, and the wide field.I will constitute the field.

Look upward to himLook to him for everythingLook to him for helpLook to him for comfort

She will blaze through you like a gypsy wildfire. Igniting you soul and dancing in its flames. And when she is gone, the smell of her smoke will be the only thing left to soothe you.

With slouch and swing around the ringWe trod the Fools’ Parade!We did not care: we knew we wereThe Devils’ Own Brigade:And shaven head and feet of leadMake a merry masquerade.

MenThey hail you as their morning starBecause you are the way you are.If you return the sentiment,They'll try to make you different;And once they have you, safe and sound,They want to change you all around.Your moods and ways they put a curse on;They'd make of you another person.They cannot let you go your gait;They influence and educate.They'd alter all that they admired.They make me sick, they make me tired.

In a tired time, with the light outside drifting away for another day and the lights inside flickering as they come to life, I cup my hands together and prepare to give thanks ... to the life of a day given to me. A day shared with past and present, living and dying, of body and not, and a realization that in everything that is, there is something that was.

At last everything was satisfactorily arranged, and I could not help admiring the setting: these mingled touches betrayed on a small scale the inspiration of a poet, the research of a scientist, the good taste of an artist, the gourmet’s fondness for good food, and the love of flowers, which concealed in their delicate shadows a hint of the love of women

If we surrenderedto earth's intelligencewe could rise up rooted, like trees.

A word only writes Its night and ridesIts dream.