Poetry Quotes - Page 29

Old words are reborn with new faces.

I think can sit here for hours,Arguing with the world as to why I can't give up,Tell everyone around me what a blessing you are,Laugh at all the times that you've brought sun into my life,I can tell everyone how passionate you are and how much you bring into this world,But right now I'm sitting here for hours,Trying to keep myself together because I'm trying to figure out how to tell the world that the man I love,Is the reason why I'm so broken.

Twas the night before Thanksgiving. All the food's in the oven. And I'm in the bedroom performin' self lovin'.

Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.

We sit and talk,quietly, with long lapses of silenceand I am aware of the streamthat has no language, coursingbeneath the quiet heaven ofyour eyeswhich has no speech

I could simply kill you now, get it over with, who would know the difference? I could easily kick you in, stove you under, for all those times, mean on gin, you rammed words into my belly. (p. 52)

The prettiest girls shine brightest in the dark. 

As wave is driven by wave And each, pursued, pursues the wave ahead, So time flies on and follows, flies, and follows, Always, for ever and new. What was before Is left behind; what never was is now; And every passing moment is renewed.

A dalliance with poetry before we dance.

It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down.It is not the houses. It is the spaces between the houses.It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.

We never know how high we areTill we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan,Our statures touch the skies.The heroism we reciteWould be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warpFor fear to be a king.

The Children's HourBetween the dark and the daylight,When the night is beginning to lower,Comes a pause in the day's occupations,That is known as the Children's Hour.I hear in the chamber above meThe patter of little feet,The sound of a door that is opened,And voices soft and sweet.From my study I see in the lamplight,Descending the broad hall stair,Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,And Edith with golden hair.A whisper, and then a silence:Yet I know by their merry eyesThey are plotting and planning togetherTo take me by surprise.A sudden rush from the stairway,A sudden raid from the hall!By three doors left unguardedThey enter my castle wall!They climb up into my turretO'er the arms and back of my chair;If I try to escape, they surround me;They seem to be everywhere.They almost devour me with kisses,Their arms about me entwine,Till I think of the Bishop of BingenIn his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,Because you have scaled the wall,Such an old mustache as I amIs not a match for you all!I have you fast in my fortress,And will not let you depart,But put you down into the dungeonIn the round-tower of my heart.And there will I keep you forever,Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,And moulder in dust away!

The killer whale's heart weighs one hundred kilosbut in other respects it is light.There is nothing more animal-likethan a clear conscienceon the third planet of the Sun.

The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness.

Don't think because you can't affect something at a great level that God can't use you in a great way. David didn't even train one day with the armies but He won the war. He didn't even have a weapon but he killed a giant.

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way,but what I reject is more numerous,denser, more demanding than before.A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable loss.

Don't shrink your standards, link yourself with those who think and ink like you.

Hear about the hidden time. Some think the hidden time is yet to come. The Kingdom of God does not come by Observation. It is hidden in the inner dimension.

Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.

THOUGH you are in your shining days,Voices among the crowdAnd new friends busy with your praise,Be not unkind or proud,But think about old friends the most:Time's bitter flood will rise,Your beauty perish and be lostFor all eyes but these eyes.

I am vulnerability under scarred skin. Numbness crawling behind wine soaked lips. A cocoon of grief battling a chest full of hushed breaths, longing to escape the mod-podge of memories, that journal where I've been. Layer after layer they are sealed upon my person, encapsulating time in a vessel that has sailed one too many shores.

Sometimes I dreamthat everything in the world is here, in my room, in a great closet, named and orderly,and I am here too, in front of it, hardly able to see for the flash and the brightness—and sometimes I am that madcap person clapping my hands and singing; and sometimes I am that quiet person down on my knees.

Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville.

Some people complain there are too many people on earth, Some people complain about secret societies, Some people accuse others of not being able to wake up early. Almost all people complain about something.

Release-For yearsthey told you tosit.Stay.Now they open the doorand tell you toget up.Leave.Where do you gowith no oneto show youthe way?

...I recall that day on the beach - the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair...

I don't understand the whole thrilling verse, but I love the way poetry turns ordinary words into winged things that rise up and soar!

i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.

We are all instruments pulling the bows across our own lungs. Windmills, still startling in every storm. Have you ever seen a newborn blinking at the light? I wanna do that every day. I wanna know what the kite called itself when it got away, when it escaped into the night...

If birth is a manifestation of life, death is another.

Blankly expressing oneself can be stronger than words.

the only thing required to be a woman is to identifyas one.- period, end of story.

Some find freedom in comfortothers find comfort in freedom

Absolute equals nothingness.

A vast field opened like a blossoming tulip, flowers blooming in the rippling airs of spring. High and frothy trees hugged air and sun as they gallantly cast a shade over the earth. On the horizon a florid vessel of mountains trailed to the never-ending, blue as memories distant, poised as statues embroidered into time’s eternal drift.

To write good poems is the secret of brevity.

Don’t bring confusion to my table. Bring flowers. Bring books. Bring cakes.But leave your indecisiveness behind.My heart is not up for breaking (again) and my time is precious.Don’t waste either on murky thoughts and cloudy thinking.

The stars are forth, the moon above the topsOf the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful!I linger yet with Nature, for the nightHath been to me a more familiar faceThan that of man; and in her starry shadeOf dim and solitary loveliness,I learn'd the language of another world.

What we encounter in works of art and philosophy are objective versions of our own pains and struggles, evoked and defined in sound, language or image. Artists and philosophers not only show us what we have felt, they present our experiences more poignantly and intelligently than we have been able; they give shape to aspects of our lives that we recognise as our own, yet could never have understood so clearly on our own. They explain our condition to us, and thereby help us to be less lonely with, and confused by it.

It is ferocious, life, but it must eat . . .

Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.

The experiences, the lessons, and the defeats,They were all necessary for me to be me,took me a while being blind before i could see,had to crawl on my knees before i stood on my feet,once i stood on my feet i found out i had wings,the flight is amazing, i felt like a king,and when no one is listening, i found out i can sing, what happy times and thoughts does it bring,whatever it takes just make sure you are free,free to live, and grow like a tree,The people you love are the branches you need,its not about the type, the color, or breed,Live life with ambition, ambition indeed,Thats what it took, and thats what i need.

Don't tell a girl with fire in her veins and hurricane bones what she should and shouldn't do. In the blink of an eye, she will shatter that ridiculous cage you attempt to build around her beautiful bohemian spirit.

These (Shakespeare, Milton, and Victor Hugo) not only knit and knot the logical texture of the style with all the dexterity and strength of prose; they not only fill up the pattern of the verse with infinite variety and sober wit; but they give us, besides, a rare and special pleasure, by the art, comparable to that of counterpoint, with which they follow at the same time, and now contrast, and now combine, the double pattern of the texture and the verse.  Here the sounding line concludes; a little further on, the well-knit sentence; and yet a little further, and both will reach their solution on the same ringing syllable.  The best that can be offered by the best writer of prose is to show us the development of the idea and the stylistic pattern proceed hand in hand, sometimes by an obvious and triumphant effort, sometimes with a great air of ease and nature.  The writer of verse, by virtue of conquering another difficulty, delights us with a new series of triumphs.  He follows three purposes where his rival followed only two; and the change is of precisely the same nature as that from melody to harmony.-ON SOME TECHNICAL ELEMENTS OF STYLE IN LITERATURE

Uncontradicting solitudeSupports me on its giant palm;And like a sea-anemoneOr simple snail, there cautiouslyUnfolds, emerges, what I am.

We traveled long and forgot why poetry was invented.

There is so much want. I feel it so much that I am water, a river of want, pooled in the shape of a girl named Cassia.

But do not fall only for what can be seen,there is more than just beauty and pleasure...

Come closer, my dears, let me give you a warning,Of the fate that befalls those who stay out past morning,In the darkest hours before the dawn,When witches roam and demons spawn,And children die with spirit gone,Magicked away in the gloaming.

This is the creature there has never been.They never knew it, and yet, none the less,they loved the way it moved, its suppleness,its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.Not there, because they loved it, it behavedas though it were. They always left some space.And in that clear unpeopled space they savedit lightly reared its head, with scarce a traceof not being there. They fed it, not with corn,but only with the possibilityof being. And that was able to confersuch strength, its brow put forth a horn. One horn.within the silver mirror and in her.

I am deep. therefore you can't wade in the kiddie pool and expect to find me." - Alfa"And I've never wanted to drown until now." - JmStorm

Ozymandias"I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frownAnd wrinkled lip and sneer of cold commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.And on the pedestal these words appear:'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,The lone and level sands stretch far away.

You see it dying, you feel helpless while it fades,You tend to lose hope lest you forget, a ripple is all, and that's all it takes...#MyExperiencewith498A

If I were to sit on the ocean floor and look toward the sky,I might see a whale or electric eel or octopus pass by.And if I decided to jump straight up and reach with open arms,I might feel the pleasure of ocean flight propel me ’mid their swarms.But if I were seated upon the shore and looking toward the stars,I might see a comet or falling star near Mercury or Mars.Then if I decided to jump straight up and reach with open hands,I might feel despair when my feet refused to leave the shoreline sand.And so I return to the ocean depths where swimming creatures fly,For there I can soar with the whales and fish that daily touch the sky.

Better poetry than riches,Better poverty than fortunes.

When the lad for longing sighs,Mute and dull of cheer and pale,If at death's own door he lies,Maiden, you can heal his ail.Lovers' ills are all to buy:The wan look, the hollow tone,The hung head, the sunken eye,You can have them for your own.Buy them, buy them: eve and mornLovers' ills are all to sell.Then you can lie down forlorn;But the lover will be well.

A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.

How could I live above the water or breathe under it. How could I swim in darkness consumed in an ocean of you? Falling or flying towards you, losing or finding myself in you and beauty was never the word to catch all that you are. For now I know the means of the infinite and it all starts and ends with you.

I find that the thoughts spoken between the lines are the most important parts of a poem or story.

Of all the days dropped in time's pocketThis day will seek acknowledgement with a child's shy asking, because the love between us used no word uncommoner than coffee, and was never traced by graphs of huge emotion. Yet some fancy will recall this day hallowed past recognition.