Poetry Quotes - Page 54

There are some griefs so loudThey could bring down the sky,And there are griefs so stillNone knows how deep they lie,Endured, never expended.There are old griefs so proudThey never speak a word;They never can be mended.And these nourish the willAnd keep it iron-hard.

A maidenhead, the virgin's troubleIs well-compare-d to a bubbleon a navigable riverSoon 'tis touched t'is gone forever

I will use my special sight! I will quiet myself right here and now and I will get the answer on what to do to and create my own way out of here!” Arthur, See the Little People…An Enchanting Adventure

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quietWith the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

And would it have been worth it, after all,Would it have been worth while,After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor - And this, and so much more? -

love is always moving towards you

In summer the empire of insects spreads.

In the final analysis it is between you and God, it was never between you and them anyway.

The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty.

If you stand right at the edge of the night sky, some place where one o’clock leaves to meet two, the breeze will carry your words up to the stars. And they’ll swallow your secrets until its time to hand them over to the truths in the sky- the ones that draw maps in the black. They carve their answers into the backs of my hands, the grooves of the words running deep in my palms.

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.

My friend, you thought you lost Him;that all your life you've been separated from Him.Filled with wonder, you've always looked outside for Him,and haven't searched within your own house.

You are hurrying to the sweet place, To the nonsense chasing your spirit And in the nonsense you look for answers.

A friend is a companion for the journey,never a means to our own.What we take we take together,the joy we reap, we have sown.

There is this pain of love. You experience it some moments. It begins like a strange gnawing in your heart. It then spreads slowly. Spreads to the whole body. You fall deeply into it. This feeling.

We made love outdoors—without a roof, I like most, without stove, my favorite place, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and dripping with dew, and our love for each other was seen. Our love for the world was new.

You did anything to bury me, but you forgot that I was a seed.

As a writer, a poet, you’re not alone in wanting to be alone. Your work is a friendship that never leaves you.

God writes love and speaks poetry.

O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one.

It's just me throwing myself at you,romance as usual, us times us,not lust but moxibustion,a substance burning closeto the body as possiblewithout risk of immolation.

By noon, silence arrives one last time, flowing into every space of her room. And before long, silence swallows sound and color and seconds and equations and entire stanzas of old poetry, leaving new words. The sheets are breathless. The room is bruised.My mother is still warm.

Must always try to be out thereGetting everything out thereTake what is inside yourselfAnd place it out there.

2a.m and a ceiling stained with question marks.

I was certain of the uncertainty thatlied ahead which made you A risk,A mystery,And the most annihilating thing I have ever known.

Plato utterly condemns the poets for publishing trivial, false and indeed wicked stories about the gods, such as that they fight with each other, or are overcome by emotions like grief, anger, mirth. Reluctantly, he will not allow Homer in his Republic, and he is very angry with the tragic poets for spreading unworthy ideas of the Deity.It may well be that there were inferior tragic poets who deserved Plato's strictures, but so far as concerns the tragic poets whom we know, Plato's attack is absurd. It is the attack of a severely intellectual philosopher who was also more of a poet than most poets have contrived to be; one who invented some of the profoundest and most beautiful of Greek myths. 'There is a long-standing quarrel', says Plato, 'between philosophy and poetry.' So there was, on the part of the philosophers, and most of all in Plato's own soul.

No matter how you are taught by your teacher about how to recite a poem, it is impossible to wear your teacher's smiling face to the stage. You got to change your own face into a smiling one!

Language has not the power to speak what love inditesThe soul lies buried in the Ink that writes

I never spoke — unless addressed —And then, 'twas brief and low —I could not bear to live — aloud —The Racket shamed me so —And if it had not been so far —And any one I knewWere going — I had often thoughtHow noteless — I could die —

Poetry is the essence and evidence of life.

Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw...

All the world's a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances,And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,In fair round belly with good capon lined,With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws and modern instances;And so he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slippered pantaloon,With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,That ends this strange eventful history,Is second childishness and mere oblivion,Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Sewn together patterns, like many clashing moods,She wears what No others dare

With wine and being lost, withless and less of both:I rode through the snow, do you read meI rode God far--I rode Godnear, he sang,it wasour last ride overthe hurdled humans.They cowered whenthey heard usoverhead, theywrote, theylied our neighinginto one of theirimage-ridden languages.

Thus I, gone forth, as spiders do,In spider’s web a truth discerning,Attach one silken strand to youFor my returning.

i am so crammedfull of fearsthat if you were to touch me i might eitherfly or break.

Since when," he asked,"Are the first line and last line of any poemWhere the poem begins and ends?

It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted.

Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn.

When I want to be reminded of stupidity, especially my own, I turn on the TV.

God moves in mysterious waysHis wonders to performs

She was broken from moment to moment, watching her world collide she felt lost inside herself. She fell apart for a passion that flamed beneath her. She waited and died a hundred times, it dripped from her pores. The moment she let go, she soared over the stillness like the star she was born to be.

To come to nothing through something is the way to outside from both sides.

Nostalgia locates desire in the past where it suffers no active conflict and can be yearned toward pleasantly.

What betrayed me? Was it my heart? Or my Soul?

... unfools of unbeing ... means quite clearly people who are too stereotyped to be eccentric – people who are too dead spiritually to exist at all and who call alive individual fools

...O if we but knew what to do When we delve or hew— Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender,

I’m not a woman you bring home to Mother, pick out china patterns with, or Mary forefend, breed. I’ve seen a chunk of the universe, true, but there’s still so much more to see. I doubt I’ll ever cure this wanderlust, and I’m content with dedicating my life to failing to sate it... He’s never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.

Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.

The feeling of being both trapped and free at the same time is the most mind twisting feeling of all.

Moonlight drifts from overA hundred thousand milesTo fall upon a cemeteryIt reads a hundred epitaphsAnd then smiles at a nest ofBaby owls

Doubt makes faith true

Some wrong eternity that wouldn’t budge, like trying to move a wardrobe or a safe, only to feel how light I was.

Senses empower limitations, senses expand vision within borders, senses promote understanding through pleasure.

If you write then you are reborn because by writing about the moment, you can relive it for a second time.

Long ago an uncalled rain fell and a called-upon God stayed equally distant.

Only God can mend a broken heart.

An educator will teach the students. An Educarer will reach the students.

If it doesn't sound insane, I would only talk about you and the only word which would come out of my mouth, will be your name.

I wouldn't go back in time to erase you... No. I'd go back just to feel you twice. Then I'd press replay - again and again.