Poetry Quotes - Page 49

Loving you is kissing the night, exposing the scars, words in flames, for every drop and for every life.

I am going to hurt you.You are going to hurt me.But we will do it with practiced fingersand passionate mouthsand I swear to godit will be worth something.

Those people who shoot endless time-lapse films of unfurling roses and tulips have the wrong idea. They should train their cameras instead on the melting of pack ice, the green filling of ponds, the tidal swings…They should film the glaciers of Greenland, some of which creak along at such a fast clip that even the dogs bark at them. They should film the invasion of the southernmost Canadian tundra by the northernmost spruce-fir forest, which is happening right now at the rate of a mile every 10 years. When the last ice sheet receded from the North American continent, the earth rebounded 10 feet. Wouldn’t that have been a sight to see?

I wanted to know every story behind the scars on her curves. I wanted to decipher the whispers hidden beneath her every breath. I wanted to unravel her with my hands.

He said he'd never opened up to anyone... But that confiding in me, was like learning to breathe all over again. I don't know about you, but how do you turn away from that?

InsomniaI wonderIf those talks matterFew done in the clarity of dayOr the manyDone at 3 a.m. in the morning

everything i know about loveis that it hurtsand is almost always never returnedthe way you want it to.but i have hopebecause i do not know everything.

That's what really broke me, she was better than any fantasy I could hope to imagine. I've spent my life creating, yet she was pristine the likes of which I could never fashion.

Sometimes we are asking God to reveal his presence, provisions and purpose in our lives and we pray like we are trying to get God's attention but I think prayer has less with getting God's attention but He getting mine.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall

Where are we going? It’s not an issue of here or there. And if you ever feel you can’t take another step, imagine how you might feel to arrive, if not wiser, a little more aware how to inhabit the middle ground between misery and joy. Trudge on. In the higher regions, where the footing is unsure, to trudge is to survive.

It was her eyes. Soft, meadow-shade eyes with frostbitten edges. Every glance casually held gossamer infinity. Every stare revealed inky black abyss with a hint of divinity.

~Dance~My fingers danceOn the set Of ivory & black pirouettes.I let goWhile my fingers fly, Making music through the night.This is the best therapy. A place of release, House of freedom & relief.My oasis of redemption.My river of gentle.My ocean of mental. My mind is relieved. My fingers are free To let go, making music sweet.Rache Nicole Wagner Original

I die a little,In the echo of your silence.

I haven't got a clue on how to love you like a lover should, how to make you happy or even how to make you stay. I hardly grasp the essence of desire and true affection scares me more than it should, but know that every stutter, every shy glance, every hesitant touch, come from someone who believes in you and I.

You are to me,what wind is to dry leaves. The reason for me to fall,the reason for me to fly.

sometimes I hearscreaming like a childand wake upto find it’s me

I write because there are things in me that cannot die.

Does my soul sufferWhen my body breaks downWhen I feel mortalWhen my body is weakDoes the soul rejoiceThe end is near

Poems should be like pins which prick the skin of boredom and leave a glow equal in its pride to the gate of the sadist who stuck the pin and walked away

Ha! spring arrived on her sweet scented palanquin,carried by the spirited Zephyrus and his coir with their murmuring music undulated in its own softness and fondled the leaves to astir.

She's always looking for poetry and passion and sensitivity, the whole Romantic kitchen. I live on a rather simpler diet.' 'Prose and pudding?''I don't expect attractive men necessarily to have attractive souls.

I believe that to be the world's greatest livingwriterthere must be somethingterribly wrong with you.I don't even want to be the world's greatestdead writer.just being dead would be fairenough.

Landscape is my religion....God in a green legend, I lean over the poolIn a testament of leaves. I dangle my twinkling mood Before me in a cool cave roofed with branchesAnd floored with a skin of water.

tread carefullyinto my life, my dear.the currents are strong.you will get lostin this warm oceanof my skin.

The clouds above us join and separate,The breeze in the courtyard leaves and returns.Life is like that, so why not relax?Who can stop us from celebrating?

If you can not be a poet, be the poem.

Armed I am with love. Disarmed I am.

Of this poetryI’m left with the emptinessof an endless secret

If the colour of life turns grey turn the palette the other way

Writing is not a matter of time, but a matter or of space. If you don't keep space in your head for writing, you won't write even if you have the time.

To expect to be kissed having bad breath is the secret of a fool.

To be happy to be sad and sad to be happy is to sing an echo in that beautiful language called Sorrow.

SOWING LIGHTNINGSeizeBolts of lightning from the skyAnd plant them in fields of life.They will grow like tender sprouts of fire.Charge somber thoughtsWith unexpected flash,You, my lightning in the soil!

Over the inter glaciers,I see the summer glow,And, through the wild-piled snowdrift,The warm rosebuds below.

The birth of a true poet is neither an insignificant event nor an easy delivery. Complications generally begin long before the fated soul carries its dubious light into whatever womb has been kind enough to volunteer the intricate machinery of its blood and prayers and muscles for a gestation period much longer than nine months or even nine years.

Love is the poetry of the senses!

My favorite place in the world is next to you.

Plût au ciel que le lecteur, enhardi et devenu momentanément féroce comme ce qu’il lit, trouve, sans se désorienter, son chemin abrupt et sauvage, à travers les marécages désolés de ces pages sombres et pleines de poison ; car, à moins qu'il n’apporte dans sa lecture une logique rigoureuse et une tension d’esprit égale au moins à sa défiance, les émanations mortelles de ce livre imbiberont son âme comme l’eau le sucre. Il n’est pas bon que tout le monde lise les pages qui vont suivre ; quelques-uns seuls savoureront ce fruit amer sans danger. Par conséquent, âme timide, avant de pénétrer plus loin dans de pareilles landes inexplorées, dirige tes talons en arrière et non en avant. Écoute bien ce que je te dis : dirige tes talons en arrière et non en avant.

Of course! the path to heavendoesn't lie down in flat miles.It's in the imaginationwith which you perceive this world,and the gestureswith which you honor it.-from The Swan

how can i everbreathe normally againafter having been cradledby the kind of sorrowso silent, that it nourishesafter having been sweptby the kind of joyso absolute, that it wounds.

They miss the whisper that runsany day in your mind,"Who are you really, wanderer?"--and the answer you have to giveno matter how dark and coldthe world around you is:"Maybe I'm a king.

It was useless trying to explain to Cecila that poetry wasn't a commodity, that it could never be bought or sold, that it was, in fact, unteansferrable, remaining forever a part of the one who wrote it.

For the Wife Beater's WifeWith blue irises her face is blossomed. BlueCircling to yellow, circling to brown on her cheeks.The long bone of her jaw untrackedShe hides in our kitchen.He sleeps it off next door.Her chicken legs tucked under herShe's frantic with lies, animatedBefore the swirling smoke.On her cigarette she leaves red prints, redLike a cut on the white cup.Like a skin she pulls her sweater around her.She's cold,She brings the cold in with her.In our kitchen she hides.He sleeps it off next door, his greatBelly heaving with booze.Again and again she tells the storyAs if the details ever changed,As if blows to the face were somehowDifferent beating to beating.We reach for her but can't help.She retreats into her cold love of himAnd looks across the table at usAs if across a sea.Next door he claws out of sleep.She says she thinks she'll do somethingAfter all, with her hair tonight.

So dawn goes down today... Nothing gold can stay.-- Robert Frost

I stalk certain words... I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives... I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them... I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves... Everything exists in the word.

LIFE IS SUBVERSIVE

Il était tard; ainsi qu'une médaille neuveLa pleine lune s'étalait,Et la solennité de la nuit, comme un fleuveSur Paris dormant ruisselait.

I drank the dregs of the wine to what remained of my health.I gave the last of my fervor for what remained of my hope.I cannot say for sure that this country is cursed,Honey flows with the milk, and the milk might curdle. Eli7

[poems are] crystals deposited after the effervescent contact of the spirit with reality.(cristaux deposes apres l'effervescent contact de l'esprit avec la realite)

When I/Don’t know/What to say,/Let me/Listen.

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!O falling fire and piercing cryand panic, and a weak mailed fistclenched ignorant against the sky!

Truth is like poetry.And most people fucking hate poetry.

If you want the light, like you say you do, then why do you keep it strangled in thedark? If you preach love, like you strive to, why do you run away from practising?My love,the universe you fumble for doesn’t exist, if you don’t start from within. Before you,all that I can be is eyes and heart. And all that I can do is to remain by your side,for I can’t love you any less than the more I do now.

Answer Professor Mandell’s letter when you get a chance and the patience. Ask him not to send me any more poetry books. I already have enough for 1 year anyway. I am quite sick of it anyway. A man walks along the beach and unfortunately gets hit in the head by a cocoanut. His head unfortunately cracks open in two halves. Then his wife comes along the beach singing a song and sees the 2 halves and recognizes them and cries heart breakingly. That is exactly where I am tired of poetry. Supposing the lady just picks up the 2 halves and shouts into them very angrily “Stop that!” Do not mention this when you answer his letter, however. It is quite controversial and Mrs. Mandell is a poet besides.

Loving you is no more a beautiful memory, but now just a pain,I cry and weep every time I walk down the memory lane,Your love always completed me in every sense as a whole,But now it’s just emptiness and sorrow in my heart that drains,Of all the people in the world, you choose me to be hurt,Of all the hearts in the world, you choose mine to break…Why did you leave me I ask myself every morning and dawn?Why my love was incomplete tell me why you were gone?A silence surrounds my heart and fills it again with despair,Oh this pain is just too much, and the damage beyond repair,Please come back baby, just come back and bring that old smile,Or just come to see me every once in a while,So my heart no more bleeds, and no more my soul aches,So I can be peaceful after my death, in my ashes and burnt flakes…

I tended to find lines of poetry beautiful only when I encountered them quoted in prose, in the essays my professors had assigned in college, where the line breaks were replaced with slashes, so that what was communicated was less a particular poem than the echo of poetic possibility. Insofar as I was interested in the arts, I was interested in the disconnect between my experience of actual artworks and the claims made on their behalf; the closest I'd come to having a profound experience of art was probably the experience of this distance, a profound experience of the absence of profundity.

If you work by faith and not by sight, you will always see a sign. You have to develop a space of comfort to know that there is a difference between signs and sounds, it means God will tell you that He will make a change in your life but He won't show you anything to demonstrate the change for a little while because He doesn't want your faith to be in the change; He wants your faith to be in the promise, so that when the change is a bit slow in coming, you will know how to trust in Him while you wait for it to come to pass.

She asked me the definition of beauty. So I told her name in my reply!

thighs made of hymns, I read 'em like I'm reading runes. Now tell me where my future lies...your neck, can I Savion on it?