Poetry Quotes - Page 52

And round about there is a rabbleOf the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.They shall inherit the earth.

The distinctive features of the world's civilisations are not simply and solely the giraffe and the city of Rome, as the children may perhaps have been led to imagine on the first evening, but also the elephant and the country of Denmark, beside many other things. Yes, everyday brought its new animal and its new country, its new kings and its new gods, its quota of those tough little figures which seem to have no significance, but are nevertheless endowed with a life and a value of their own, and may be added together or subtracted from one another at will. And finally poetry, which is grater than any country ; poetry with its bright palaces.

I'm going to do something bigger and better,bigger and betterand bolder, but first,I'm going to do somethingsmaller and worse.

How my adventures become your sins?

I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple--or a green field--a place to enter, and in which to feel.

Blind barthimus used his mouth and his feet to affect what wasn't working in his life? What do you use to affect what's not working in your life? God is not interested in your perfection, He is interested in your participation. It is your participation that attracts the presence of God.

I enjoy it when the world smiles; the more smiles, the warmer I am.

We look at your eyes. The eyes carry the wounds. The eyes know damage. Damaged people recognize other damaged people, and we let you in. We are kindred. - Broken Places

He was tiredof being calleda fag and teasedfor his sexualityby one of the guards,so he tried to hanghimself, twiceThe kid got a littlecloser the secondtime, but I won’t bearound to see athird

Truth is everywhere, and easily seen.Believing one’s eyesIs the difficulty.

Poems are soft kitten furs. smoothing out the rough edges of my world.

You read between the wrong lines.

Float beyond the world of trees. Out into the whispering breeze, past the rushes, past the weeds, past the marsh's waving reeds.

Poetry purrs like a kitten on the tip of our tongue. Each word fluidly floating from our lips, like little crystalline snowflakes, before settling onto an emotional wonderland of forgotten feelings. It has the power to pull our deepest emotions to the surface of consciousness and to serenade our soul with the haunting melody of a self, lost... and finally found.

To dream on occasion is not dreaming, To love on occasion is not love.

I'd rather write poetry than watch TV it allows me to share the wide screen in me.

I like your mind when it plays with mine. We harmonize, like a dirty sweet symphony.

keep following your heart.it won't always be easy, but it'll be the most important thing you'll do.

You call it hope — that fire of fire!It is but agony of desire.

Though the body is itsgenesis, a poem is the vision of a processCarved in space, vision your poor eye's singlearmor against winter spring summer fall

...yes, I am your priest, your magician, your lover - I make charms to incant your presence...

Start with your heart, and only good can follow!

Times change, as do our wills, What we are - is ever changing; All the world is made of change, And forever attaining new qualities.

The truth, the all moving magic, the single handed spark of it all wasI found art. And this saved my life.

What haunts me most about her eyes is the pain I put in them... In the corner of my dark soul Her passion is dark like a kohl She is giving new meaning to these feelings She is complete she is whole.

How surely gravity's law,strong as an ocean current,takes hold of the smallest thingand pulls it toward the heart of the world.Each thing---each stone, blossom, child---is held in place.Only we, in our arrogance,push out beyond what we each belong tofor some empty freedom.If we surrenderedto earth's intelligencewe could rise up rooted, like trees.Instead we entangle ourselvesin knots of our own makingand struggle, lonely and confused.So like children, we begin againto learn from the things,because they are in God's heart;they have never left him.This is what the things can teach us:to fall,patiently to trust our heaviness.Even a bird has to do thatbefore he can fly.

Let our love chase all clouds awayHold my hand and feel the dayYour footsteps guide my steps all alongBeneath my skin your veins belong.

Isn't it time that, in love, we freed ourselves from the loved one and, trembling, endured:as the arrow endures the string, collecting itselfto be more than itself as it shoots?

Change happens for youthe moment you want somethingmore than you fear it.

Winter solitude-in a world of one colourthe sound of the wind.

...your memory is a warm stone hidden in my hand I'm always turning over...

The wind went mute and the trees in the forest stood still. It was time for the last tale.

I fancied my luck to be witnessing yet another full moon. True, I’d seen hundreds of full moons in my life, but they were not limitless. When one starts thinking of the full moon as a common sight that will come again to one’s eyes ad-infinitum, the value of life is diminished and life goes by uncherished. ‘This may be my last moon,’ I sighed, feeling a sudden sweep of sorrow; and went back to reading more of The Odyssey.

You shall create beauty not to excite the sensesbut to give sustenance to the soul.

You rewrote the art in my heart.

When following God, Zero we never find.

And while she was fire,So fierce and so wild,I could only hope to be for her;The forests and the winds to carry her flame.

I have brushed my teeth.This day and I are even.

White IrisThe iris danced acrossthe ancient Grecian skiesgliding with her embossedsatiny milken sides ...

It's easy to hide behind a smile, that's why it is so important to search instead inside the eyes.

After the leaves have fallen, we returnTo a plain sense of things. It is as ifWe had come to an end of the imagination,Inanimate in an inert savoir.

Don't compare her to sunshine and roses when she's clearly orchids and moonlight.

we talk of plans that are going to happen.we talk of the future,as if we know we will last.there is a sort of comfort in that.

When a woman's face is wrinkledAnd her hairs are sprinkled, With gray, Lackaday!Aside she's cast, No one respect will pay;Remember, Lasses, remember.And while the sun shines make hay:You must not expect in December, The flowers you gathered in May.

The Author To Her BookThou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,Who after birth did'st by my side remain,Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,Who thee abroad exposed to public view,Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).At thy return my blushing was not small,My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.I cast thee by as one unfit for light,The visage was so irksome in my sight,Yet being mine own, at length affection wouldThy blemishes amend, if so I could.I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.In better dress to trim thee was my mind,But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find.In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come,And take thy way where yet thou art not known.If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;And for thy mother, she alas is poor,Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

Well in case you failed to notice,In case you failed to see,This is my heart bleeding before you,This is me down on my kneesThese foolish games are tearing me apartYour thoughtless words are breaking my heartYou're breaking my heart

Some of the greatest poetry is revealing to the reader the beauty in something that was so simple you had taken it for granted.

As for you, you're unwise: how may you then speak of these things whereof thou ask you?

i swallowed the syllables of your nameand i was full.

A voice that had traversed the centuries, so heavy it broke what it touched, so heavy I feared it would ring in me with eternal resonance, a voice rusty with the sound of curses and the hoarse cries that issue from the delta in the last paroxysm of orgasm.

I know how you feel because I’ve been there too. I’ve hated and I’ve loved. I’ve seen my demons root and crawl and my angels branch and soar. I've died within myself and lived a thousand different lives. I too fight the same war and I too am drowning in the puddles of self-consciousness this world created.

Am I kin to Sorrow,That so oftFalls the knocker of my door—Neither loud nor soft,But as long accustomed—Under Sorrow’s hand?

Tears upon the dry sponge of heartdo not prove I am Promethean.

A picture is a voiceless poem, a poem is a vocal picture.

What good are wings without the courage to fly?

Today the journey is ended,I have worked out the mandates of fate;Naked, alone, undefended,I knock at the Uttermost Gate.Behind is life and its longing,Its trial, its trouble, its sorrow;Beyond is the Infinite MorningOf a day without a tomorrow.Go back to dust and decay,Body, grown weary and old;You are worthless to me from today—No longer my soul can you hold.I lay you down gladly foreverFor a life that is better than this;I go where partings ne'er severYou into oblivion's abyss.Lo, the gate swings wide at my knocking,Across endless reaches I seeLost friends with laughter come flockingTo give a glad welcome to me.Farewell, the maze has been threaded,This is the ending of strife;Say not that death should be dreaded—'Tis but the beginning of life.

absencelooks like a lake bed flooded with skysounds like cotton howlingtastes like tear-stained pillowssmells like churning bile and burnt hairfeels like screaming agony, my heart dying and dying

eat, baby.eat.chew.please.I know it hurts. I know it doesn’t feel good.please.I know your hunger is different than mine.I know it doesn’t taste the same as mine.imagine you could grow up all over againand pinpoint the millisecond that you startedcounting calories like casualties of war,mourning each one like it had a family.would you?sometimes I wonder that.sometimes I wonder if you would go backand watch yourself reappear and disappear right in front of your own eyes.and I love you so much.I am going to hold your little hand through the night.just please eat. just a little.you wrote a poem once,about a city of walking skeletons.the teacher called home because youtold her you wished it could be like thathere.let me tell you something about bones, baby.they are not warm or soft.the wind whistles through them like they areholes in a tree.and they break, too. they break right in half.they bruise and splinter like wood.are you hungry?I know. I know how much you hate that question.I will find another way to ask it, someday.please.the voices.I know they are all yelling at you to stretch yourself thinner.l hear them counting, always counting.I wish I had been there when the world made yousnap yourself in half.I would have told you that your body is not a war-zone,that, sometimes,it is okay to leave your plate empty.

Sun-struck, stuck in mid tropic strut, it sometimes standsas if considering how to cool avian plastic,dive into the mown lagoon of lawn;how take flight on dayglow flap-doodle wings, no matterif it is ball-bald going nowhere fast.

Sam, Sam, quite contrary,bought a budgie,wanted a canary.Sam, Sam, quite contrary, kissed Suzannah,meant to kiss Marry.Sam, Sam, quite contrary,dressed as a pirate,playing a fairy.Sam Sam quite contrary,ate dark chocolate,says he likes diary.Sam, Sam, quite contarary,shaved his head,to make it hairy.