Poetry Quotes - Page 27

The untented Kosmos my abode,I pass, a wilful stranger:My mistress still the open roadAnd the bright eyes of danger.

Don’t rule out magic in ordinary things.Simply open your heartExpand your mindand believe. Magic is all aroundit can be felt in raindrops touching your cheeksand seen in rainbows after a storm.Falling in love is also a magical thing.

In an instant he forgot Joe's poem about Japan except the part about 'you are the bell, and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,' and a new sound entered his life, like when he was a kid and he first heard the sound of horses clip-clopping and he asked his mother in wonder, "What's that sound, because I've never heard it before?

Ô, the wine of a womanfrom heaven is sent, more perfect than allthat a man can invent.When she came to my bed and begged me with sighsnot to tempt her towards passion nor actions unwise, tI told her I’d spare her and kissed her closed eyes, then unbraided her body of its clothing disguise.While our bodies were nude bathed in candlelight fineI devoured her mouth, tender lips divine;and I drank through her thighs her feminine wine.Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent,more perfect than all that a man can invent.

Who you are contributes to your poetry in a number of important ways, but you shouldn't identify with your poems so closely that when they are cut, you're the one that bleeds.

Her mind is a mess, and she has no intention of cleaning today.

Her eyes, full of ancient, sacred wisdom. Her bones, deposits of inherited bravery. She is a proud descendant of strong, courageous women who went to the stakes fighting for their truths.

August is dust here. Droughtstuns the road,but juice gathers in the berries.

This choreography of ruin, the world breakinglike glass under a microscope,the way it doesn’t crack all at once,but spreads out from the damaged cavities.Still for a moment it all recedes.The backyard potatoes swell quietlyburied beneath their canopy of leaves.The wind rubs its hands through the trees.

The still watersWrap my lips,Eyes, nose and ears,A clearCellophane I cannot crack.

from the prose poem "The Universe Thrums on regardless" in my book SPAN.We are almost nothing in the night. Reduced to warm blobs and the sound of breathing. There is comfort in that.

I should think a poet president would be able to create a delectable confluence of various spaces. A poet is most political.

In pale moonlight / the wisteria's scent / comes from far away.

How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy,But droop his tender wing,And forget his youthful spring?

I let her gobecause I knew she could do betterand now she's goneI wonderif I should've just been better.

If you believe it, it is.

God has spoken to me, without words, to my heart. He has told me that I am to rewrite the future and remind His people's faith and to help keep that faith alive attached with the Holy Bible to Him. God gave me the name Compton Gage. My earthly name is not important. My person is not part of the reminder. This is not an ordinary book, this is not a Bible. The materials of the Third Testament, was organized and re-written by me. I was given a good authority by God. BY GOD ONLY!

One! two! and through and throughThe vorpal blade went snickersnack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.

I did not foresee my words becoming such a reverie of mimic and refrain.

Poetry the eldest sister of all arts and parent of most.

A poetess is a collection of unfinished thoughts. She is a tormented phantom, a harbinger of life and death. Those who peer deep inside her catacombs will learn that even madness is a virtue.

I yearn to make these scars disappearAnd to forget about the past.To throw away all of my fearsAnd to be happy at last.

The JewelThere is this caveIn the air behind my bodyThat nobody is going to touch:A cloister, a silenceClosing around a blossom of fire.When I stand upright in the wind,My bones turn to dark emeralds.

Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.

Love.Because of you, in gardens of blossomingFlowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.I have forgotten your face, I no longerRemember your hands; how did your lipsFeel on mine?Because of you, I love the white statuesDrowsing in the parks, the white statues thatHave neither voice nor sight.I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;I have forgotten your eyes.Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound toMy vague memory of you. I live with painThat is like a wound; if you touch me, you willMake to me an irreperable harm.Your caresses enfold me, like climbingVines on melancholy walls.I have forgotten your love, yet I seem toGlimpse you in every window.Because of you, the heady perfumes ofSummer pain me; because of you, I againSeek out the signs that precipitate desires:Shooting stars, falling objects.

to split the very sea into ours and theirs." Border at the BeachAnd More White Sheets

...and I laugh and I spin and dance and frolic in ecstasy and I... I hurt no more, while you...you petrified little man, are left to wonder if it's you I speak of.

and the afterglow...of your gaze...is the onlysweater that I need.

I dream like a dew drop in the nightThen glitter in the morning sunlightThen it evaporates to embrace the sky

I think here I will leave you. It has come to seemthere is no perfect ending.Indeed, there are infinite endings.Or perhaps, once one begins,there are only endings.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, Eyes;I wonder if It weighs like Mine,Or has an Easier size.

Exercises are like prose, whereas yoga is the poetry of movements. Once you understand the grammar of yoga; you can write your poetry of movements.

Always our wars have been our confessions of weakness

Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.

to live asubstance-freelife under thepressures ofthe daily grindis state-sponsoredsuicide

There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.

~ Not every poem is meant for oral stimulation, some are better devoured mentally.

All things want to float.

One error, in fact, of eccentricity in poetry is to seek for new human emotions to express; and in this search for novelty in the wrong place it discovers the perverse. The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all.

You’re lonely,” they say,but it doesn’t scare me anymorefor it teaches me,and maybe that’s the biggest win from these years:I don’t need anyone else to distract me from myself anymore,like I always thought I would.I don’t break mirrors anymore,like I always thought I would. I can finally stand myself,and I never thought I would.

With all honesty, somewhere between the hello and the dreams I saw you in I fell in love.

When within yourself you find the road, the right road will open.

Ask him why there are hypocrites in the world.''Because it is hard to bear the happiness of others.''When are we happy?''When we desire nothing and realize that possession is only momentary, and so are forever playing.''What is regret?''To realize that one has spent one's life worrying about the future.''What is sorrow?''To long for the past.''What is the highest pleasure?''To hear a good story.

Birthing hope from the madnessthat perches on the fenceof our once perfectdreams.

I am a world of uncertainties disguised as a girl.

But, in the end, a kiss is just a kiss; I have no time for love, or seasoned lips.

Haiku does not express emotion from the inside out by displaying the mind of a character. Haiku builds the emotional thrust, makes the artistic statement from the outside in, from the physical world to the mind of the reader.

I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple -- or a green field -- a place to enter, and in which to feel. Only in a secondary way is it an intellectual thing -- an artifact, a moment of seemly and robust wordiness --wonderful as that part of it is. I learned that the poem was made not just to exist, but to speak --to be company. It was everything that was needed, when everything was needed.

Stars in the night,' he said. 'Something something something something, some delight

The more thou search, the more thou shall marvel; for the world hast fast to pass away-

Every attempt to fix eternity is an escape from reality. I will be plaguing my days with moments and minutes. For ever is too far!

But when I think of us,in the quiet when I'm on my own,I think of Beauty and the Beast.I, being the beast, and you being the last beautiful thing in this city.

The Inner Self...What makes us who we areshould be glorifiedpersonifiedand sung unto the stars!

Without intending to, without even knowing it, he demonstrated with his life that his father had been right when he repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate, no manager so lucid or dangerous, than a poet.

Everything that looks too perfect is too perfect to be perfect.

we want it visibletto showwhen even the most tvisible joyttwill reveal itselfonly when we havetttransformed it within.there’s nowhere, my love, the world can existexpect within.

I danced with my shadows until they became part of my light.

A drainless shower of light is poesy 'tis the supreme of power 'tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.

Safety isn't always safe. You can find one on every gun.

There is only as much space, only as much time, Only as much desire, only as many words, Only as many pages, only as much ink To accept all of us at light-speed Hurrying into the Promised Land Of oblivion that is waiting for us sooner or later.