Poetry Quotes - Page 4

The poet drafts his work as a writer but edits it as a sculptor, with his pen as a chisel and his mind a hammer.

I hope to arrive at my death, late, in love, and a little drunk. 

i asked him why he carried a flask."because the bottle pours too fucking slow

It is probably always disastrous not to be a poet.

I cannot forgive you. That day, if you had not refused, I would have given you a present. I would have carved my love in stone.

Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.

Such hungry desperation in a single kiss when it's enamored in love and bathed in bliss.

Friday night's alright for fightingSaturday, Sunday, Monday tooEvery night is a night of fightingWith family and friends like you

That night, stargazing on the deck with Dad, eyes on the sky, he pointed out Orion, Betelgeuse. "It's an art to read the stars, baby."I never wanted to leave his side-my sure song for so long. Now? His eyes are stone changed. Just looking at them hurts my heart.

HereI'm here-the snow falling.

Please let me know if I am not hereLet me know if I fail to find you thereFor before the dawn I leave the night behind meAnd before my heart I let you leave me behind.

If my life was pulled into the pages of a book, there would be coffee stains and wrinkles along the lines of that narrative. Because all I can wish is that the book of my life would be well read and well loved. Living within words and the sound of writing.

I am a baby, I am a child, I am the innocent wonder in my eyes I am a glimpse, I am a sign, of someone I can be, someone I might I am not one, I am not two, but I am a million things entwined I am a piece, I am a slice, strung together by the yarns of time.

Early mapmakers kept their backs to the sea

I did it the hard way (a poem)___________________Many of the big dreams I dreamt,I dreamt, when I met a failed attempt.Life taught me to believe thatGreat ideas can start from a wretched hut.Many of the strongest steps I took,I took, when I was given the fiercest look.My passion pokes me to understandThat people’s mockeries, I can withstand.Many of the fastest speeds I gained,I gained when I was bitterly stained.I first thought the only way was to quitAs I tried again, I no longer have guilt.Many of the bravest decisions I made,I made, when my life was about to fade.I was frustrated and ripe to sink.But then I strive to release the ink.Many of the longest journeys I started,I started, having no resource; money partedI relied on God my creator all dawn longAnd at dusk He gave me a new song.Many of the hardest questions I tackled,I tackled, when I was heckled.They were very troublesome to settleBut I make it happen little by littleYet, it was not I, but the Lord JesusThe saviour who gives me success.In Him, through Him and by HimI have the liberty to do everything with vim.I don’t want to enjoy this liberty alone.You too must step out of your comfort zone.It’s not easy, but you can do it anyway.Jesus is the life, the truth and the way.

So, the darkness hid the little girl in herself,to protect her from the wolves with the human mask on their faces.

The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.

Without sound,There would be no music.And without music,There would be no life.And without a life force,There would be no matter.But it does not matter -Because what is matter,If there is no light?

Real faith looks beneath the surface. Real faith knows that faith works sometimes in dark places. Real faith knows that sometimes in order to see a change, you will have to steer through your situation to really see it.

I will missmy chest explodingyou coming home latenot turning on the lightalways waking me upI will missthe sudden burst of safetywhen you look at meor hold my handor say something like”let’s go home”I will missthe years I loston something or someone.The pieces didn’t fit, shaped wrongthe timing slightly off.I loved you like I always will.

kisses explode when... someone believes in me when my heart cries out a song of thanks to yours.

Dance resides within us all. Some find it when joy conquers sorrow, others express it through celebration of movements; and then there are those... whose existence is dance,

...winter crescent resting in the high pine bough - you fly through the woods like a lone snow bird...

Tranquil breeze Glittering beach Dancing water Bluest skyMy mind flies high with joyful laughter.

From everything, nothing looks to nothing.

Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music, Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled.

LIFE IS A JOURNEYTO FIND THE PEOPLEWEIRD LIKE YOU. —ATTICUS

I didn't know the demonsthat walked across your memory.They came from the dustwhen you were at peacein your grave.

our love likestepping on to a planesitting down in a carwalking on unknown land will either take us to where we belongor throw us into darkness

Each person you meetis an aspect of yourself,clamoring for love.

We are unraveling our navels so that we may ingest the sun. We are not afraid of the darkness. We trust that the moon shall guide us. We are determining the future at this very moment. We know that the heart is the philosopher's stone. Our music is our alchemy.

I am too full of lifeto be half-loved.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,Are a substantial world, both pure and good:Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

THE PRESOCRATIC PROBLEM[all snap flags]Parmenides named his gun The Hot Power of the Stars. His gun was one, uncreated, imperishable, timeless, changeless, perfect, spherical. Spherical was the problem.

‪You collide with destiny caught up in the mystery of walking the halls of a mind that's only inclined to recognize & expect victory.‬

Don’t pack out!To some people, you make life brightWhen you decide to dim your lightTheir lives will be full of darknessDo shine your light in kindnessTo some people, you bring out a joyWith their emotions, never ever toyWith your smiles, grease them with oilAnd make them glad when their lives boilTo other people, you are the warmthThat kills coldness and brings strengthDon’t do it; don’t pack outElse, they will have blackoutYou’re on earth to do two things hereWake up and do them now; this yearFirst, dare to grow and become betterSecond, help others to also become greaterNever in any of the four seasonsShould you neglect your gifts for any reasonsThe world needs you to make it a better placeDon’t pack out; run your race.

may my touchalways...be tenderas i would strokemother's cheekswhen she cried.

I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; So I turn'd to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be: And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds, And binding with briars, my joys & de

Strategy for a MarathonI will startwhen the gun goes off.I will runfor five miles.Feeling good,I will run to the tenth mile.At the tenthI will say,Only three moreto the halfway."At the halfway mark,13.1 miles,I will knowfifteen is in reach.At fifteen milesI will say,You've run twenty before,keep going."At twenty I will say,Run home.

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things not seen.

There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery storewith a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sackthat should have been bagged in double layers—so that before you are even out the dooryou feel the weight of the jug draggingthe bag down, stretching the thinplastic handles longer and longerand you know it’s only a matter of time untilbottom suddenly splits.There is no single, unimpeachable wordfor that vague sensation of somethingmoving away from youas it exceeds its elastic capacity —which is too bad, because that is the wordI would like to use to describe standing on the streetchatting with an old friendas the awareness grows in me that he isno longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,a person with whom I never made the effort—until this moment, when as we say goodbyeI think we share a feeling of relief, a recognition that we have reachedthe end of a pretense, though to tell the truthwhat I already am thinking aboutis my gratitude for language—how it will stretch just so much and no farther;how there are some holes it will not cover up;how it will move, if not inside, thenaround the circumference of almost anything—how, over the years, it has given meback all the hours and days, all theplodding love and faith, all themisunderstandings and secretsI have willingly poured into it.

Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me,even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye:I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.

A demon seduced an angel in the middle of the nightand they gave the stars a glimpse.There was nothing casual about it, it was tender skin and battle scars breathless passion under storm clouds a rapid river stream mirroring the moon light. Until one day, he left her with nothing, just a bruised heart and carved memories iridescent wings chipped on the edges heat under her skin, like an ember burning low.I asked her, "What do you do after a love like that?"She laughed.And madness danced behind her eyes.But she flew so high the world was jealous.

Dear friend, I have searched all nightthrough each burnt paper,but I fear I will never findthe formula to let you die

Sometimes you know that you are destined to die, but somehow you are given a parenthesis after the punctuation mark: more years, more time that wasn’t meant for you but still was meant for you, a bridge stretching out into the stars, a confidence built of invisible threads, a miracle.

Only times and places, only names and ghosts.

and you taste / of the memory of god abandoned.

It may happen once or perhaps several times during your lifetime, but you'll meet a 'soulmate'. The bond will be instantaneous. They'll be a perfect fit for the empty indention your heart has for rent, and you'll almost think you 'wished' them into existence. One touch... and every pent-up emotion you have buried, will flood your aching heart. The magic is never more apparent that when you realize each of your souls are a perfect template of each other.

I suppose that's how it looks in prose. But it's very different if you look at it through poetry…and I think it's nicer…' Anne recovered herself and her eyes shone and her cheeks flushed… 'to look at it through poetry.

That is why they have poets—to classify all the degrees of love. It is for scientists to classify the maladies arising from the want of it.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest. The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

To conquer fear, you must become fear - you must bask in the fear of the BOOK... and men fear most what they cannot see- The Power of the Book is spiritual.

If what we need to dream, to move our spirits most deeply and directly toward and through promise, is discounted as a luxury, then we give up the core -- the fountain -- of our power, our womanness; we give up the future of our worlds. (From "Poetry is Not a Luxury")

The noontide of my life is starting,Which I must needs accept, I know;But oh, my light youth, if we're parting,I want you as a friend to go!My thanks to you for the enjoyments,The sadness and the pleasant torments,The hubbub, storms, festivity,For all that you have given me;My thanks to you. I have delightedIn you when times were turbulent,When times were calm... to full extent;Enough now! With a soul clear-sightedI set out on another questAnd from my old life take a rest.Let me glance back. Farewell, you arboursWhere, in the backwoods, I recallDays filled with indolence and ardoursAnd dreaming of a pensive soul.And you, my youthful inspiration,Keep stirring my imagination,My heart's inertia vivify,More often to my corner fly.Let not a poet's soul be frozen,Made rough and hard, reduced to boneAnd finally be turned to stoneIn that benumbing world he goes in,In that intoxicating sloughWhere, friends, we bathe together now.

I find my data first in myself, not first in the poets. For if I did not find it in myself, I would not be able to find it in the poets.

the mostbeautiful tideis the sweepof your heartagainst mine.

It was no mere accident you were sent to me, perfect synchronicity. Familiar souls wrapped in skin, brought together through time again.

So small footprint yet the shovelling jealous sea has not erased it.You were for me the necessary exemplary figure of dedication and endurance. Whatever your inner life truly was it was ardently pursued. You observed with acute imagination. When you spoke you drove to the heart of things though sometimes through wry indirection. You manifested the value of the life dedicated to an art. Whatever terrors you underwent they may have been very great you did not evince them. You were never indecent.Of course in making this thing about you or around you I am talking about my youth and homesick for it. But that is not the point. The point is that at one time in one place I met someone who became to me a living conscience.

The way through the worldIs more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

Strong sun, that bleachThe curtains of my room, can you not renderColourless this dress I wear?—This violent plaidOf purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripeOf thin but valid treacheries; the flashy green of kind deeds doneThrough indolence, high judgments given in haste;The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?