Poetry Quotes - Page 67

I have more wisdom than any books ever written in history of times, any scripture ever written which you rhyme but this is not my purpose.

You are not going to burn out, you're just beginning. You have an entire galaxy of stars burning fiercely inside of you and once the blaze begins it's impossible to annihilate. Passion can't be contained.

I will forever walk alone in a world overflowing with those that will never understand my meaning of “Learning to See” I’m always teaching myself to see beauty in all aspects of reality, yearning to learn the beauty in others, from their vision of everyday life to their deepest secrets of their dreams. As the sun rises I must smile, smile for those with the beautiful mind and soul. I’m so passionate for the visions I see, and the dreams I wish the world could be.

some moments are nice, some arenicer, some are even worthwritingabout.

In the great green room, there was a telephoneAnd a red balloonAnd a picture of a cat jumping over the moon...

Thus it had come about that she had read far more fiction, and far more poetry, those two sanctuaries of the lonely, than most of her kind.

And you know what the worst thing was?The worst thing was that nobody ever believed how hard we tried.

God is the one subject of reality. Take away the one subject and there is nothing real.

I am the interpretation of the prophetI am the artist in the coffinI am the brave flag stained with bloodI am the wounds overcomeI am the dream refusing to sleepI am the bare-breasted voice of libertyI am the comic the insult and the laughI am the right the middle and the leftI am the poached eggs in the skyI am the Parisian streets at nightI am the dance that swings till dawnI am the grass on the greener lawnI am the respectful neighbour and the graceful manI am the encouraging smile and the helping handI am the straight back and the lifted chinI am the tender heart and the will to winI am the rainbow in rainI am the human who won’t die in vainI am Athena of Greek mythologyI am the religion that praises equalityI am the woman of stealth and affectionI am the man of value and compassionI am the wild horse ploughing throughI am the shoulder to lean ontoI am the Muslim the Jew and the ChristianI am the Dane the French and the PalestinianI am the straight the square and the roundI am the white the black and the brownI am the free speech and the free pressI am the freedom to expressI will die for my right to be all the above here mentionedAnd should threat encounter I’ll pull my pencil

Knowing that it is the earth we tread, we learn to tread carefully, lest it be rent open. Realizing that it is the heavens that hang above us, we come to fear the echoing thunderbolt. The world demands that we battle with others for the sake of our own reputation, and so we undergo the sufferings bred of illusion. While we live in this world with its daily business, forced to walk the tightrope of profit and loss, true love is an empty thing, and the wealth before our eyes mere dust.

And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, "Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!

As a way of getting in touch with my originsevery night I set the alarm clockfor the time I was born so that waking upbecomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do

The man is in his work,read it if you want to know about him.

McGough: I'm sorry. I'm afraid I've caught poetry. Mr Bones: Oh really? Well, don't worry, sir - I used to suffer from short stories.McGough: Really? When?Mr Bones: Oh, once upon a time ...

I paid, got up, walkedto the door, openedit.I heard the mansay, "that guy'snuts."out on the street Iwalked northfeelingcuriouslyhonored.

I am talking about the responsibility of the poet, who is irresponsible by definition, an anarchist enamored of a solar order and never of the new order or whatever slogan makes five or six hundred million men march in step in a parody of order.

For even the best err in words when they are meant to mean most delicate and almost inexpressible things.

We built tall buildings, but we have not become any taller.

If you could have walked on the planet before humans lived here, maybe the Ivory Coast would have seemed more beautiful than La Côte d'Azur.

Depression/The assassin inside me

breathe in experience breathe out poetry

Equally, the surrealists consider words as witnesses of life acting in a direct way in human affairs. To use words properly it was necessary to treat them with respect, for they were the intermediaries between oneself and the rest of creation. To abuse them was immediately to set oneself adrift from true being. Words need to be coaxed to reveal a little of their true nature, so as to close the breach that exists between the writer and the universe. The world is not something alien against which man is in conflict. Rather man and cosmos exist in reciprocal motion. We are not cast adrift in an alien or meaningless environment. The universe is intimate with us and, as Breton insisted, it is a cryptogram to be deciphered.

This is what I think aboutwhen I shovel compostinto a wheelbarrow,and when I fill the long flower boxes,then press into rowsthe limp roots of red impatiens—the instant hand of Deathalways ready to burst forthfrom the sleeve of his voluminous cloak.Then the soil is full of marvels,bits of leaf like flakes off a fresco,red-brown pine needles, a beetle quickto burrow back under the loam.Then the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue,the clouds a brighter white,and all I hear is the rasp of the steel edgeagainst a round stone,the small plants singingwith lifted faces, and the clickof the sundialas one hour sweeps into the next.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

Conscience is no more than the dead speaking to us.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart againstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.

Poetry is the Devil's wine.

The place trembled with sound. I didn't need to do anything. They would do it all. But you had to be careful. Drunk as they were they could immediately detect any false gesture, any false word. You could never underestimate an audience. They had paid to get in; they had paid for drinks; they intended to get something and if you didn't give it to them they'd run you right into the ocean.

The masters of information have forgotten about poetry, where words may have a meaning quite different from what the lexicon says, where the metaphoric spark is always one jump ahead of the decoding function, where another, unforeseen reading is always possible.

i like my body when it is with yourbody. It is so quite new a thing.Muscles better and nerves more.i like your body. i like what it does,i like its hows. i like to feel the spineof your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smooth ness and which i willagain and again and againkiss, i like kissing this and that of you,i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzzof your electric fur, and what-is-it comesover parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,and possibly i like the thrillof under me you so quite new.

Existence is where the soul goes to learn how to interpret itself again.

I know one thing for sho Heaven’s gotta have a ghettoCuz where else in death do I get to go?

What is a woman that you forsake herAnd the hearth fire and the home acreTo go with that old grey widow-maker?

Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other.

The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore,Are what ten thousand envy and adore:All, all look up, with reverential Awe,At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the Law:While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry-`'Nothing is sacred now but Villainy'- Epilogue to the Satires, Dialogue I

Amé, fuí amado, el sol acarició mi faz.¡Vida, nada me debes! ¡Vida, estamos en paz!I loved, I was loved, the sun stroked my face.Life, you owe me nothing! Life, we are at peace!

Had we but world enough, and time...

i knew his heart was yours but i wanted to become an alchemist to make gold of the pieces i receivedbecause all i ever felt was the dark side of his leaded heart.

You give but little when you give of your possessions.It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

I'm still in love with the parts I believed to be true. All the lies that began and ended with 'I love you'.

Life doesn't stop. It doesn't stop progressing forward and it never stops trying to bring you to your knees. It will test your strengths and exploit your weakness, and I'm not sure that is always such a bad thing.

For you she learned to wear a short black slipand red lipstick,how to order a glass of red wineand finish it. She learned to reach outas if to touch your arm and then nottouch it, changing the subject.she'd begin, orTo call your best friendsby their schoolboy namesand give them kisses good-bye,to look away when they say! So your confidence grows.She doesn't ask what you wantbecause she knows.Isn't that what you think?When actually she was only waitingto be stunned, and then do this,never rehearsed, but perfectly obvious:in one motion up, over, and gone,the X of her arms crossing and uncrossing,her face flashing away from you in the fabricso that you couldn't say if she wasappearing or disappearing.

Not knowing the name of the tree,I stood in the floodof its sweet scent.

show me all the parts of youthat you do not loveso i know where to begin.

The most carefully crafted language in our culture tends to be poetry. And poetry at its finest moments subverts our best attempts at hiding from reality...The poetry of liturgy has just this power. The liturgy contains words that have been shaped and crafted over the centuries. It is formal speech. It is public poetry. As such it reaches into us to reveal not only the unnamed reality of our lives but the God who created us...But even when the words of the liturgy are not literally biblical words, the words, like all truthful words, work on us over time, like a steady, unrelenting stream slowly reshapes the banks of a river. The words do something to us even when we're not paying attention.

Here dwell together still two men of noteWho never lived and so can never die:How very near they seem, yet how remoteThat age before the world went all awry.But still the game’s afoot for those with earsAttuned to catch the distant view-halloo:England is England yet, for all our fears–Only those things the heart believes are true.A yellow fog swirls past the window-paneAs night descends upon this fabled street:A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.Here, though the world explode, these two survive,And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

A song is the exultation of the mind dwelling on eternal things, bursting forth in the voice.

Every man is a poet at heart.

With one perfect kiss on one perfect English summer afternoon, we understand the meaning of all the colors of every rainbow, forevermore.

We are merely ghost flowers under the shade of the moonMany shades of secret sorrows blanket our eyesWe spend our lives and our soulsSearching-Longing-Waiting-For a little light to shine and heal our broken halo’s

Alone"From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—

Poverty of young men alone behind thestairways, who practicealchemy inside bottle caps, who knowthe altruism of a last syringe.

Beautiful feelings soar freely, while true care roots deeply. Real love can only bedefined by them both.

Death does not wait for you to be ready.

Sometimes the fact that you can't sense God isn't an indication that He is not there. It is just an indication that you are hanging out in the wrong place.The cave is not a physical location, it is a state of mind.

In fact, poetry has always been like archives that peoples have continually used to serve their feelings, thoughts, national identities and cultures, and it has served as a factor uniting different historical periods. Those who had lost contact with their past for a certain period found and experienced the expression of their own selves in poetry, and the were able to see their history as a whole in it.

I speak here of poetry as a revelatory distillation of experience, not the sterile word play that, too often, the white fathers distorted the word poetry to mean--in order to cover a desperate wish for imagination without insight.For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives.

It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India—a hundred Indias—whispered outside beneath the indifferent moon, but for the time India seemed one and their own, and they regained their departed greatness by hearing its departure lamented, they felt young again because reminded that youth must fly.

It's better to swim in the sea belowThan to swing in the air and feed the crow,Says jolly Ned Teach of Bristol.

What does life give me in the end but sorrow?What do love's good and evil send but sorrow?I've only seen one true companion - pain,And I have known no faithful friend but sorrow.