Poetry Quotes - Page 6

All dust is the same dust. Temporarily separated To go peacefully And enjoy the eternal nap.

Maybe what you need in your life is not the next level of accomplishment or the next level of accumulation but the next level of appreciation for what you have; that will set the stage to make a space for what you will accumulate in the future. ( a bit deep) Simply put thank God for now before setting the goal for tomorrow because if you grow in gifts and didn't grow in gratitude, you have gained nothing.

Poetry [is] more necessary than ever as a fire to light our tongues.

I want you to hold the rising sun,I’m hearing the stars calling me ;

Poetry’s circular fulfillment was so persistent, when I was weak it gave me strength.

Yet this thou art alive, but if ye soar,My poor frail heart will have beat out its cryAnd sadly miss thy sweet form all the moreWhile helplessly I stand and watch you die.

You are the mark on my liquid heartwhere love begins with the beginning’s startYou are the desire of the ablaze fires the only truth from ten-thousand-liarsFrom the poem- A Letter to My Love

I bring you with reverent handsThe books of my numberless dreams.

But how wonderful when the tale is told,And the message that is meant for usOpens like the scents of a mountain flower!

You can't love me if you don't love you, you can't think of nothing to do with me if you can't think of nothing to do with yourself, stop feeling sorry for yourself and tidy up, clean up the apartment until you get a house, do that job until you build your own company. Look at what you have and think on how to make it better.

MAN is a slave only to his own mental lethargy.

The History TeacherTrying to protect his students' innocencehe told them the Ice Age was really justthe Chilly Age, a period of a million yearswhen everyone had to wear sweaters.And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,named after the long driveways of the time.The Spanish Inquisition was nothing morethan an outbreak of questions such as"How far is it from here to Madrid?""What do you call the matador's hat?"The War of the Roses took place in a garden,and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.The children would leave his classroomfor the playground to torment the weakand the smart,mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,while he gathered up his notes and walked homepast flower beds and white picket fences,wondering if they would believe that soldiersin the Boer War told long, rambling storiesdesigned to make the enemy nod off.

Everything is temporary, almost like a passing fase, some of laughter Some of pain. What we would do, If we had the chance to explore What we had taken for Granted the very day before, Some would say I'm selfish, To hold a little sadness in my eyes, But they don't feel the sorrow When I can't do, all that helps me feel alive. I can express my emotions, but I can't run wild and free, My mind and soul would handle it but hell upon my hip, ankle and knees, This disorder came about,as a friendship said its last goodbyes, Soooo this is what I got given for all the years I stood by? I finally stand still to question it, life it is in fact? What the fuck is the purpose of it all if you get stabbed in the back? And after the anger fills the air, the regret takes it places, I never wanted to be that girl, Horrid, sad and faded... So I took with a grain of salt, my new found reality, I am not of my pain,the disability doesnt define me. I find away to adjust, also with the absence of my friend,I trust the choices I make, allow my heart to mend. I pick up the piecesI retrain my leg, I find where I left off And I start all over again, You see what happens... When a warrior gets tested; They grow from the ashes Powerful and invested. So I thank all this heartache,As I put it to a rest, I move forward with my life And I'll build a damn good nest.

Poetry can take you places that were once only traveled by your imagination.

সারাটি রাত্রি তারাটির সাথে তারাটিরই হয় কথা,আমাদের মুখ সারাটি রাত্রি মাটির বুকের 'পরে!

Nothing is made, nothing disappears. The same changes, at the same places, never stopping.

There is a warin your nameI have martyred yousold you to freedomoh, Freedom

I wind up stretched across the couchstill nodding with Sherlock Holmesexamining our crushed veins

He thought she was like all the rest... that she'd be swayed by his attention and charm. But she got tired of watching him chase his own ass and dealing with his funny farm.

Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion. To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain.

Some can't handle the fiery poet, how she rips into souls burning words into prose.

Why write poetry? For the weird unemployment. / For the painless headaches, that must be tapped to strike / down along your writing arm at the accumulated moment. / For the adjustments after, aligning facets in a verb / before the trance leaves you. For working always beyond / your own intelligence.

I slay dragons at night while you sleep. I see by the way your face contorts how they exist in your dreams. Willing a magic sword, I plunge into your deepest nightmares and swing at the beasts with all my might, dodging flames exhaled by monsters that would eat me alive to go on torturing the fair one I love. I see your face relax, eyes still drowsily closed, when the mighty dragon is slain. It may be that my fingers rub soft circles on your forehead as I imagine my brave fight as a knight reclaiming your dreams. You smile under the spell of my touch, and I am rewarded. And so, my love, as I await the dawn, I stand ready to slay dragons while you sleep.

The Bane...where coxswain's dirtand seaman's shirtsbrushed bawdily upon her chest...

Do you think your soul is more beautiful than your body?

I am she who lifts the mountainsWhen she goes to hunt,Who wears mamba for a headbandAnd a lion for a belt.Beware!I swallow elephants wholeAnd pick my teeth with rhinoceros horns,I drink up rivers to get at the hippos.Let them hear my words!Nhamo is comingAnd her hunger is great.I am she who tosses treesInstead of spears.The ostrich is my pillowAnd the elephant is my footstool!I am NhamoWho makes the river my highwayAnd sends crocodiles scurrying into the reeds!

My uncle read me Omar Khayyam. In Arabic. Not Turkish or even English. I tried so hard to understand it. I would ask him what it all meant but he always said the pleasure was in the finding out... the discovery. He said you can keep some poems by you your whole life and they will only reveal parts of themselves to you when you are ready to hear them. (Ottmar)

Unbeing dead isn't being alive.

Balm of the summer night, balm of the ordinary,imperial joy and sorrow of human existence,the dreamed as well as the lived—what could be dearer than this, given the closeness of death?

If you are of the opinion that the contemplation of suicide is sufficient evidence of a poetic nature, do not forget that actions speak louder than words.

We speak in (rich) monotones. Our poetry is haunted by the music it has left behind. Orpheus shrinks to a poet when he looks back, with the impatience of reason, on a music stronger than death.

I don’t believe we should carry backupplans in life’s suitcase—they’re too easy to unpack like living a life in yoga pants, so comfortable our hips spreadinto new timezones...

Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

Oh the beauty of nature! Oh the magical heart touching flower.My heart wants to bloom like you with love, joy, and laughter.

We sing lyrical excess, exacerbated expressionism, imponed objectivity,inventiveness, meta-baroque, extravaganza, super metaphor, sublimity, strident, exposure, super-pone, noise, super-objectivity, zillionism, fragmentation and aesthetics of facts, suractivism.

September has come, it is hersWhose vitality leaps in the autumn,Whose nature prefersTrees without leaves and a fire in the fireplace.So I give her this month and the nextThough the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered alreadySo many of its days intolerable or perplexedBut so many more so happy.Who has left a scent on my life, and left my wallsDancing over and over with her shadowWhose hair is twined in all my waterfallsAnd all of London littered with remembered kisses.

And did with sighs their fate deplore,Since I must shelter them no more;And if before my joys were such,In having heard, and seen too much,My grief must be as great and high,When all abandoned I shall be,Doomed to a silent destiny.

He didn't have to say much, It was all in his eyes ~ He didn't have to do much, It was enough, just to be at his side.

...I pluck every day from my sweater or chair, red hairs...strands of significance, traces of you in my life ...

The world hast fast to pass away- And cannot comprehend the things that are promised to the righteous in time to come: for this world is full of unrighteousness and infirmities.

There must always be an opposition because the enemy always opposes what the Lord has declared.

A writer will divine a metaphor from a pattern on a dress, or a gesture, because sunsets have been done before.

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire.He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought

I become a horn to be heard over whistles.

And when I feelthe masks beneathcrumble and fade withtime I build new onesto replace the old."Masks"- Sins Within

And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom.

The spiritual life to me has always meant just one thing: emotion. Emotion is the poetry of life.

In this universe there are no time machines or keys that can turn hearts back around.

Fire is calling my name. It is whispering words of encouragement, sweet things. It wants out, for me to fan the heat until it’s a vortex that can’t and won’t be stopped.

But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,But often, in the din of strife,There rises an unspeakable desireAfter the knowledge of our buried life;A thirst to spend our fire and restless forceIn tracking out our true, original course;A longing to inquireInto the mystery of this heart which beatsSo wild, so deep in us—to knowWhence our lives come and where they go.

ilet myselfknowthat my lifedoesn'thave to be overjust becausetheirs are& i wentahead& paintedthe sunback into my sky.I am allowed to live my life.

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.

If you can change the way you think in time you will notice a change in your heart and also a change in your life and the way you see things.

Can somebody please explain how humans can be so inhumane?

My whole life has been spent walking by the side of a bottomless chasm, jumping from stone to stone. Sometimes I try to leave my narrow path and join the swirling mainstream of life, but I always find myself drawn inexorably back towards the chasm's edge, and there I shall walk until the day I finally fall into the abyss.

Music straightjackets a poem and prevents it from breathing on its own, whereas it liberates a lyric. Poetry doesn't need music; lyrics do.

Poets find their voices when they articulate the wishes of the dead, especially those slain as sacrificial talismans to a larger frame of existence.

The scientist is more religious than the poet because his beliefs rests in faith for a reality that is intangible.

Many are they that rise up against you. Many there be which say of your soul, ‘’There is no help for you.’’ But the instruments of death is prepared for your cause.

We are all old-timers,each of us holds a locked razor.