Poetry Quotes - Page 46

Stretched and skewedTap of the 8-ball and the cueScratches fall throughThey are the scars of you

Know that we have met before and that we will meet again. I will find my way to you in the next life, and every life after that.

Use the wings of the flying Universe, Dream with open eyes; See in darkness.

BLACK IS SO FUCKIN' BEAUTIFUL

Time present and time pastAre both perhaps present in time futureAnd time future contained in time past.

YOU SAY "POET" LIKE THAT MEANS SOMETHING.

You have not escaped his notice either- you are here by 'a call' not by choice.

I stood there on the corner of the street,I held on to your hand,I looked into your eyes,And all you responded with was,"move on

Sweetest smile is made saddest tear-drop!

All I ask the haters--and I, too, am one--is that they strive to perfect their contempt, even consider bringing it to bear on poems, where it will be deepened, not dispelled, and where, by creating a place for possibility and present absences (like unheard melodies), it might come to resemble love.

Sun shines above making diamonds of lightTink-tinkling, tap dancing, and bright.

Deep down,I lay dormant inside her head,Deep down,I lay the rules inside her head,Deep down,I lay inside inside her heart,Deep down,I know she will never move onBecause deep down, I am always there

I avoid the looming visitor,Flee him adroitly around corners,Hating him, wishing him well;Lest if he confront me I be forced to say what is in no wise true:That he is welcome; that I am unoccupied;And forced to sit while the potted roses wilt in the crate or the sonnet coolsBending a respectful nose above such dried philosophiesAs have hung in wreaths from the rafters of my house since I was a child.Some trace of kindliness in this, no doubt,There may be.But not enough to keep a bird alive.There is a flaw amounting to a fissureIn such behaviour.

We played with the moon all night, painting faces on its blank cheek, shining its spotlight into sleeping people’s windows. But mostly we just ate the moon, stuck tongues to its surface and felt it dissolve, left chunks of its minty scalp on neighbors’ doorsteps.

i took it off.i did not want to carry it with me anymore.

How about we be the light of Jesus Christ? There are things we tend to forget when fear becomes the driving force. The world is filled with a lot of questions now; what do we do? Who do we elect? How do we fix this? Some people feel powetless in those ways. Helpless, hopeless, confused, overwhelmed.What do we do?My answer: Stop looking for practical advice "don't be afraid " "those who are with us are more than those who are with them"2 kings 6:16

And watch two men washing clothes,one makes dry clothes wet. The other makes wet clothes dry. they seem to be thwarting each other, but their work is a perfect harmony.Every holy person seems to have a different doctrine and practice, but there's really only one work.

She has one hell of a dark soul,but damn,it’s so full of light!

I think poor poetry writing skills are excused when you’re simply trying to flush out emotions.

from under the ground, from under the waters,they clutch at us, they clutch at us,we won’t let go.

And you might try to hide or protect yourself, or compare the different states of love,but you must not grow up, must not act wise when it comes to love.You must stay foolish and fall for every heart will beat in different ways together with yours and love is not meant to be compared, only enjoyed, and suffered, and remembered.

He wouldn't perform without a recording now, she was certain, like a poet working in the oral tradition who had been contaminated by the advent of the recording device and so insisted that all improvisations be saved for posterity.

Stranger, pause and look;From the dust of agesLift this little book,Turn the tattered pages,Read me, do not let me die!Search the fading letters findingSteadfast in the broken bindingAll that once was I!

A true poet is one who can appreciate the disciplines and structures of any and all styles of poetry.

I wouldn't mindif life left me...winglessburnt to cindersripped by stormsscattered...like weedscelestially woundedwithout cherry blossomsto perish withbut I would crywith head held in my handsif it left me...unfulfilled.

I have hunger for your mouth, for your voice, for your hair

The Ogre does what ogres can,Deeds quite impossible for Man,But one prize is beyond his reach:The Ogre cannot master speech.About a subjugated plain,Among it's desperate and slain,The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,While drivel gushes from his lips.

hate blows a bubble of despair intohugeness world system universe and bang-fear buries a tomorrow under woeand up comes yesterday most green and young

Don't go far off, not even for a day,because I don't know how to say it - a day is longand I will be waiting for you, as inan empty station when the trains areparked off somewhere else, asleep.Don't leave me, even for an hour, because thenthe little drops of anguish will all run together,the smoke that roams looking for a home will driftinto me, choking my lost heart.Oh, may your silhouette never dissolveon the beach, may your eyelids never flutterinto the empty distance. Don't LEAVE me fora second, my dearest, because in that moment you'llhave gone so far I'll wander mazilyover all the earth, asking, will youcome back? Will you leave me here, dying?

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.___________________________Israelmore Ayivor

You don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.)Why?You cannot afford it? Bosh! You spendEditions de luxe on a thirsty friend.You can buy any one of the poetry bunchFor the price you pay for a business lunch. Don't you suppose that a hungry head,Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed?Looking into myself, I find this true, So I hardly can figure it false in you.

you clutter my mindthoughts of you, thoughts of me with youthoughts that keep me from restthat ull me to sleep at nightyour words are like butterthey're smooth and they're richand they make the bitter bits better

Living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times, because I never volunteered to take this on. The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,the forever ongoing task of explaining this and that,and why I don’t want to look like this and be like thatbut still here I am and if this is the body I’ve been given I’m sure as hell gonna make it work.

Go thy way, weigh me the weight of the fire, or measure me the blast of the wind, or call me again the day that is past.

The ocean-blue bowl won’t refuse to bruise, won’t hold it back from the gaping earth-wounds.There will still come water, chill wind and happy goosebumps, and in the utmost corners of oaks, leaves laughing.

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.

I realized the world around me was fragmented and broken... I had to be gentle enough not to scrape against the jagged pieces. I would not be cut today.

Walk and loveWe're walking in loveFor the walk of love

Is it not funny, in the presence of an unlimited God, we will still be stucked? Sometimes faith overwrites the fact, that some people have not come to realise. Stop giving excuses and telling God what is happening around you. You have the tools.

It does not matter how strong your gravity is, we were always meant to fly.

There is no single thing... that is so cut and dried that one cannot attend to its secret whisper which says 'I am more than just my appearance'. If each object quivers with readiness to imply something other than itself, if each perception is a word in a poem dense with connotations, then the poet's selection of any given subject of speculation will become... a means of attuning himself to the rhythms and harmonies of reality at large. ... The notion of a network of correspondence is not an outmoded Romantic illusion: it represents a crucial intuition...

Keats mourned that the rainbow, which as a boy had been for him a magic thing, had lost its glory because the physicists had found it resulted merely from the refraction of the sunlight by the raindrops. Yet knowledge of its causation could not spoil the rainbow for me. I am sure that it is not given to man to be omniscient. There will always be something left to know, something to excite the imagination of the poet and those attuned to the great world in which they live (p. 64)

Pay to go inside Neruda's homeA body lies there with no dome.But right there in the front hallLean a fairy against the icy wall.Oh Endless enigmas had the bard!Nice and large and calm backyardEnds In the middle of a rare roomRare portrait of revelishing gloom.Up climbing at the weird snail stairDoes make you grasp for some air.And there's a room with bric-a-brac:Old and precious books all in a pack.Dare saying what I liked most of all?Enjoyed seeing visitors having a ball!

When you are lost in the right way, you don't go back to being found in the wrong way.

This is definitely / for the brothers / who ain't here.

the sapphire depthof my own love...startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.

Everything has its poetry. 94

The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only great poets can read the.

Every decision, every single one, comes with a price to pay. It means you chose one thing over another, always. Whether you chose right or wrong, that cost remains constant. It's a permanent life tax. That's where taxes come from.

And I choose to be aloneRather than wrapped in arms I could never need.

HOUSE Grow high. The devil can't find you. Grow deep. Buddha can't find you. Build a house and live there. Gourd creepers will climb over it, their flowers dazzling at midnight.

Live in the shadow of the moon until you're bright enough to give birth to your own suns.

We sleep in language if language does not come to wake us up with its strangeness.

Do You BelieveDo you believethat I have loved yousince the dawn of time?Do you believethat we were destinedto be intertwined?...

Storm WarningsThe glass has been falling all the afternoon, And knowing better than the instrument What winds are walking overhead, what zone Of grey unrest is moving across the land, I leave the book upon a pillowed chair And walk from window to closed window, watching Boughs strain against the skyAnd think again, as often when the air Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting, How with a single purpose time has traveled By secret currents of the undiscerned Into this polar realm. Weather abroad And weather in the heart alike come on Regardless of prediction.Between foreseeing and averting change Lies all the mastery of elements Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter. Time in the hand is not control of time, Nor shattered fragments of an instrument A proof against the wind; the wind will rise, We can only close the shutters.I draw the curtains as the sky goes black And set a match to candles sheathed in glass Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine Of weather through the unsealed aperture. This is our sole defense against the season; These are the things we have learned to do Who live in troubled regions.

Like a pair of old slippers,I feel comfort andwarmth as I slip into you.No, that is too crude.Like the match to the wick,I ignite when we touch.My counterpart andlife's purpose.Yes, as though I've known you my whole life.Every scar, every failurehas become an affirmationof what should be:You.Yes, as though I've loved you my whole life.

Heavenly bodies are nests of invisible birds.

... ancient days of sorrowancient days of pain-heartaches of the pastslowly began to wane ...(from gleaning granules)

That’s what I do: I make coffee and occasionally succumb to suicidal nihilism. But you shouldn’t worry — poetry is still first. Cigarettes and alcohol follow

Life is like a poetry, without meaning or purpose - it's useless.