Poetry Quotes - Page 26

You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,And how, how rare and strange it is, to findIn a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! How keen you are!)To find a friend who has these qualities,Who has, and givesThose qualities upon which friendship lives.How much it means that I say this to you-Without these friendships-life, what cauchemar!

Man has reached the moon, but twenty centuries ago a poet knew the enchantments that would make the moon come down to earth.

A man who knows how little he knows is well, a man who knows how much he knows is sick. If, when you see the symptoms, you can tell, Your cure is quick.A sound man knows that sickness makes him sick and before he catches it his cure is quick.

On the beach, at dawn:Four small stones clearlyHugging each other.How many kinds of loveMight there be in the world,And how many formations might they makeAnd who am I everTo imagine I could knowSuch a marvelous business?When the sun brokeIt poured willingly its lightOver the stonesThat did not move, not at all,Just as, to its always generous term,It shed its light on me,My own body that loves, Equally, to hug another body.

and love is a word usedtoo much andmuchtoo soon.

From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your roomAnd made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking upFrom your book, saw it the moment it landed. That's allThere was to it.

I will follow you, my love, to the edge of all our days,to our very last tomorrows.

Give me another Chance Then, You will Get Less than I Gain...

If you see her staring into space, probably her mind is in a deep poetic embrace or a story is brewing in her clever little head. This girl is in a trance, it will pass, just let her be until she has completed her beautiful internal dance.

The one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Poets and painters are outside the class system or rather they constitute a special class of their own like the circus people and the gypsies.

It always felt as though there were a shaken beehive living in my chest. I could never rest.

Poetry is and should not be explained It’s not a theory not a formula or a set patternIt’s a labyrinth of reflection with no source of image

Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.

There is a miracle in your mess, don't let the mess make you miss the miracle.

I’m a man of integrity. My heart is locked and I have given you the only key.

But what you’re calling poetry is what everything is. It’s not even poetry — it’s seeing. These materialists are blind. You told me they say space is infinite. Where do they see that in space?”And I, disconcerted: “But don’t you think of space as infinite? Can’t you conceive of space as infinite?”“I don’t conceive of anything as being infinite. How could I conceive of anything as being infinite?”“But, man,” I said, “Imagine space. Beyond that space is more space, and beyond that more, and then more, and more... It never ends...““Why?” asked my master Caeiro.

[On Jason Mashak's book SALTY AS A LIP, as reviewed in The Prague Post:] Mashak amalgamates various national, historical and religious traditions into a myth-mash that illuminates many sects' fanatical compartmentalizing, and the fact that so many religions and philosophies share similar goals, if not roots.

Yoga is an exact science in the form of poetry when we measure the flow of neurotransmitters in the brain.

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness

Shadow of Your SpiritAt night I see the shadow of your spiritMixing with my blood and soulDuring the day I see your photosThey tell me come to meCome to my world and romanceEven I don’t know by myselfHow I fell into your loveI cannot remove it from my heartYour love stabled my soul

For I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue. And I have feltA presence that disturbs me with the joyOf elevated thoughts; a sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;A motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things. Therefore am I stillA lover of the meadows and the woods,And mountains; and of all that we beholdFrom this green earth; of all the mighty worldOf eye, and ear,—both what they half create,And what perceive; well pleased to recogniseIn nature and the language of the sense,The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soulOf all my moral being.

April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.Summer surprised us, coming over the StarnbergerseeWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened. He said, Marie,Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.In the mountains, there you feel free.I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Poetry is not the most important thing in life... I'd much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets.

The faster you go, the idler you get.

No misery ever so beautiful than the one this mind creates.

love yourself first,and you will always be in love.

Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.

An artist must be passionately in love with her art. Obsessed or possessed ― go mad for what you believe in.

The Poetry of LoveWe see the world with the eyes of a small child.We visualize the beauty of the world with an unique magic sense,and unfold our deeper feelings and expectations diffusing the seizing negative forces that stretch out their threatening tentacles.We give blow and shape in our dreams.We seek for Love through unfamiliar new people and new experiences. Love is a vivid spirit, a big breath that touches upon each piece of our existence, our each cell…Love affiliates a lot of forms, exists and fits everywhere.Each flight of a small bird, the flutter of an incredible beauty butterfly, the stones wetted by waters of Aquamarine River, the branches of the trees that dally with the blow of wind, all these is the Spirit of Love.When you love in a genuine way, love everything.You are not bothered by the babble of Nature and the strange reactions of people.You hear the sounds of everyday routine with bigger consequence. Overtakes the meanness consequently and with courage.You seek truth in small things.You live the each moment as if it's unique.Love for nature.Love for life.Love for people.

Five minutes are enough to dream a whole life, that is how relative time is.

When by my solitary hearth I sit,When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit,And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head.

MOST DAYS MY LIFE CAN BE SUMMED UP IN MOVIE QUOTESANDHIP HOP AND R&B LYRICS

Depths of Friendship...under fathoms deepof dark and bitter coldan eerie oscillationreverberated brash and bold...

I learned a long, long time ago, that I could accomplish things in this place we call reality and yet still spend most of my time in the better reality of my mind.

Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.

You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.

...now open your mind by closing your eyessee the unseen world within you which liesFrom the poem 'The Unseen World

From the beginning, look, what thou desires to see, it shall be shew thee.

Jason Mashak’s SALTY AS A LIP is grounded in a voice patiently bridging the “steeples and ‘scrapers” of an inquisitive mind. The poems are at once syllogistic, hard-edged, satirical, reflective, and finally as playful as love notes. The true joy of this book is that we are deliciously engaged in a "pantomime of pleasure" which the language and imagery generously evoke.

Although steady and slow are the trail to love, there is no path to see through without the engine of passionate and true. (Soar)

In case you didn't know... You are her. The one he let get away.

Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,Chief nourisher in life's feast.

The only thing necessary in this world is love. Everything else is secondary.

A fortress built long ago,Walls made timeless by historic glory.The small girl in the boat slows,To listen to its story.

And in my novels I live many lives. Substitutes of spontaneity to replace a dreary reality. How I live for those inky black words and kaleidoscope colored experiences.

Tell me about the love you've lost. Maybe my story won't seem so horrifying.

You are the illness I will never cure. You are the poem I will never write. You are the thought I will never finish. You are the text I will never read.

I envythe cup of coffeethat getsto kissyour sleepy lipsawakeevery cold andbitter morning.

Falling in love is very real, but I used to shake my head when people talked about soul mates, poor deluded individuals grasping at some supernatural ideal not intended for mortals but sounded pretty in a poetry book. Then, we met, and everything changed, the cynic has become the converted, the sceptic, an ardent zealot.

Let thy words be few. I agree, but only if my ink can relentlessly run.

The brittle seeds remained inside my soul, my tears the water that begged them to grow. And though I hate to admit it, you are my sun. Your light and warmth the last variables needed to see the seedlings burst and anchor. The roots in my soul, the flower and fruit in yours.

Everyday can be extraordinaryAnd ripe,Like a flower burst,If the will is there.

I can’t help but notice that you keep writing love poetry to my wife. Well, you see, I married her, which makes her my wife. You know what you might want to try? Writing some poems about the sunset. The sunset isn’t fucking married.

In poetry we pare down our thoughts into their most graceful shapes, like minimalist sculptures.

I respond to many names.Sometimes I am different people.Sometimes I am the me that howls in the night.Sometimes I am the sickening silence.I wear moonlight in my hair and bare my teeth.

i will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowersI will take the sun in my mouthand leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyesto dash against darkness in the sleeping curves of my bodyShall enter fingers of smooth masterywith chasteness of sea-girls Will i complete the mystery of my fleshI will rise After a thousand yearslippingflowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

What you gain here, you lose on the other side.

I would love to saythat youmake meweak in the kneesbutto be quite upfrontand completelytruthfulyoumake my bodyforgetit has kneesat all.

You mark and celebrate errors, transforming failures into successes.