Poetry Quotes - Page 44

be my sonata, my cantata, my lovesing me something sweetbut not too sweet(or i may grow deaf to our harmonyas we decrescendo into silence)

down with hell and heaven and all the religious fussinfinity pleased our parents one inch looks good to us

Not with a club, the Heart is brokenNor with a Stone –A Whip so small you could not see itI've known

Existence is the end of endless eternity without a beginning or an end.

EdgesI am a child throwing rocks into the stream.Challenging the rushing water.Raising my fist and daring fate to do it worst.I am a dancer in the waves of the ocean.Swaying in time with the tide.Pirouetting, the current my only friend.I am the sun, rising across the canyonAscending, and shinning down.Giving the illusion of perception and motion.I am thoughts like a rolling river.Water cascading over the rocks of my soul.Shaping, forming, conforming.I am the peace of the rain forest.Basking in solitudeTranquil, serene, transfixing angles.Reflecting from within.Dripping and dropping. Shaking it off.I am the dust of the galaxy.Yearning to know itself.I am the wind.Wandering. Searching.A storm brewing from within.

I don't wish to be everything to everyone, but I would like to be something to someone.

i want to be in love with youthe same wayi am in love with the moonwith the lightshiningout of its soul.

You Know love when you see it, hear it, and feel it." ~ Amunhotep El Bey

Poetry is no rocket science, a good poet writes from his heart!

There shall be confusion also in many places, and the fire shall be oft sent out again, and the wild beasts shall change their places, and menstruate women shall bring forth monsters:

In darkness, some flowers blossom!

Always choose love

Only in Russia poetry is respected--it gets people killed.

She lives in the poetry she cannot write.

His pen spoke more to her than he ever did”.In the war of words, some are unwritten and some are unspoken.

Sometimesthe things that make you cryare more beautifulthan the thingsthat make you laugh.

Standing on the roof at night, beside the golden shipI look across the city and I dream a wild trip.The waves are high, the wind is strong, the moon is white and full.I smell the salt upon the sea, a strong magnetic pull.I shout into the endless dark, awaiting the reply:'Away! Away' It says: 'Away! Now spread your wings and fly.

If the poets offered us nothing more than another make-believe world, they would be mere sellers of drugs or, at best, sweetmeats.

When the Earth was just a child,He searched for his mother Venus;And for his father Mars,But they were not home;They were gone elsewhere,Out there, in the great expanse; Beyond the breathing universe.

You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.

May the nights always be aglowwith the bliss of the daywith unharmed hands and feetand kissed cheeks.

We talk so abstractly about poetry because all of us are usually bad poets.

She reads his poems gratefully in her small Mississippi town. It's an undramatic life, yet these past months she seems to have found the intensity he yearns for, This also sounds like bragging, though she doesn't mean it to. If she could, she'd let him bear her secret. She'd let all great men bear it, for s few hours. Then, when she too it back, they'd remember how it feels to be inhabited.

I'm an open book in a closed room.

Everything I have become,everything I will ever accomplishcannot compare to my mostimpressive feat:I have loved youfiercelyand assiduouslywith the very marrowinside my bones. So that when I die, they can crack them to findyou there. So that when I die, they can open me upand see your name tattooed on the wall of my heart.So that when I die, my epitaph will neither commemoratewho I wasnor what I did, but will read:“She loved.And loved. And loved.”And so, I smile now,because that is no small thing.

When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.

...but it is good to be several floors up in the dead of night wondering whether you are any good or not and the only decision you can make is that you did it...

If I could write the beauty of your eyesAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say 'this poet lies! Such heaven never touched earthly faces

Just know I amNot there to catch youBut I am there for you

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

We knew that it would soon be over, and so we put it all into a poem, to tell the universe who we were, and why we were here, and what we said and did and thought and dreamed and yearned for. We wrapped our dreams into words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable.

Honest criticism and sensible appreciation are directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry.

Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.

When your heart starts to feel full again. I love FREE refills, and if a restaurant tries to double charge me, I refuse to write a love poem on their Yelp page.-Karen Quan and Jarod Kintz

Poets, like fighters, both reap the benefits of roadwork.

The zoologists who came from Germany to inseminate the elephantwore bicycle helmets and protective rubber suits.So as not to be soiled by effluvium and excrement,which will alchemize to produce laughter in the human species,how does that work biochemically is a questionto which I have not found an answer yet.

Mathematics doesn’t care about those beyond the numbers.

Hope without love is hopeless.

Suddenly I remembered that laugh, it told a different story, our story.

I had loved poetry and the theatre. Now I loved adventure more.

I wander through each chartered street,Near where the chartered Thames does flow;A mark in every face I meet,Marks of weakness, marks of woe.In every cry of every man,In every infant’s cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forged manacles I hear:How the chimney-sweeper’s cryEvery blackening church appals,And the hapless soldier’s sighRuns in blood down palace-walls.But most, through midnight streets I hearHow the youthful harlot’s curseBlasts the new-born infant’s tear,And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

Poets to ComePOETS to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!Not to-day is to justify me, and answer what I am for;But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known,Arouse! Arousefor you must justify meyou must answer.I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future,I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you, and then averts his face,Leaving it to you to prove and define it,Expecting the main things from you.

We hear the saints saying: Our brother the world. We hear the revolutionaries: Dare we win?

In the end, the world returns to a grain.

When there's music in your soul, there's soul in your music.

I've played Romeo for Juliet(But in depth)It's vignettes of silhouettes(And then read)And watched Russian roulette, yeah red SovietYet doing it simultaneouslyWhile dropping down shed oubliettesTurned around and took truth to the head thatLove is the ugliest thing too beautiful for death

It must have been an endless breathing in: between the wish to know and the wish to praise there was no seam.

Some days I wake upand all I feelare the fracturesin the flesh that coversthe only meI've ever known.Some days,it's those exact fissuresthat let the lighthiding inside mepour outand coverin goldeveryonethat found enough beautyin the cracksto standclose.

There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn't true!

Poetry is prose in slow motion.

and tonight we held each other, one last time,like a dance to aslow songon an empty floor, underneath a singledisco ballin front of no oneat all

It was not in me It came and wentI wanted to hold it It was held by wine(I no longer know what it was)

Learning to be a lady / is like learning / to live within a shell, / to be a crustacean encased / in a small white / uncomfortable world.

I am skin, but underneath livesfire and stars and wild!

I place solitude in a frame on my desk and call it, the one I love.

She was the unlucky lover,who loved everyone but herself

I got so strongly addicted to love that I may not be able to breath without it. I fall so fondly in love with poetry that I read it in my dreams often and even unknowingly.

Imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.

PoetTo mask the fiery thought,in simple words succeeds.For still the craft of genius is,To mask a king in weeds