Poetry Quotes - Page 7

I love the silent hour of night,For blissful dreams may then arise,Revealing to my charmed sightWhat may not bless my waking eyes.

Buds in the snow—the deadly fightbetween two birds

Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.

Poetry must be as new as foam, and as old as the rock.

I was compared to Charles Bukowski yesterday. It was the best and worst compliment I've ever gotten.

As I watched the sky morph shades of amber and amethyst, of fiery orange and smoldering pink, I always wondered if colors and images like these once inspired the greats before us to construct their beauty and masterpieces.

The eye--it cannot choose but see;We cannot bid the ear be still;Our bodies feel, where'er they be,Against or with our will.

You have constellationsgrowing under your skin.starlight in the blood spilledwhen they stole your feathers

We all have our state of mind-tthappy or sad,sources of both are so relatable.Despite showing someone’s faults & flaws we need to cherish them. cause, we all are into an te n d l e s s l o o p.

When a man has many women in his life to cater to, one of them is bound to come last.

Where is my oasis? Too far fromhere for me to crawl with thesedead legs, refusing to co-operateHands and fingers clawing uselesslythrough the grains of sand...

Enjoy TheSound Of Silence.

We were always eating expired things. Milk, bread, biscuits, cake. We forgot about them as they sat around the house and just as they had gone bad, we put them in our mouths. Chocolates I brought back with me from Australia, cheeses in last year's Christmas hamper, juice from the last time someone decided to go grocery shopping. We didn't always realize they tasted funny – not everything curdles and a two-month-old orange can be just as sweet. When we did, it was usually too late. Sometimes it wasn't. We finished what we had started anyway.

So many questionsbut nothing to say,in this current momentwe are still so farfrom the answers.

Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them.

come back so i can say yes this time do it again now that i know what to call what you didthis time i'll be ready i like it rough now and i'm done with romance i never met another man who loved me so much at first sight he had to hurt me to do it

My mind is like a seaYou will only drown, If you think you can swimThere are things that devours me, No love can ever save me.

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

I have graduated to the extent of not asking what is happening in my life because I trust the maker(God).

Your poetry is lonely. And yet, you write to feel less alone

slow down, oh sweet tearsflowing nectar...down my lashes' tipssomedaysomeone will kiss you away,even before you can reach my lips.

A poet is someone who never forgets they were born naked.

O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start;You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.

There is something perfect to be found in the imperfect: the law keeps balance through the juxtaposition of beauty, which gains perfection through nurtured imperfection.

the flicker of a memoryis all we can cling tofor our cherished ghostsFrom "Cat Paws on a Windscreen

You think you know me, I've barely peeled back one layer.

In the Light of your Wisdom, You Shine. In the Midst of your Truth, Your Faith is Evident. From inside your Spirit, You are Love.

I haven’t written you a poem in years it seems.How can it be my faultwhen the words to describe you have not yet been created?When the alphabet lacks the very letters?How can it be my fault when your loveliness only growsby the time I reach for pen and paper?Tell me how I am at faultwhen I am only a beginner in poemsand you are exquisite poetry?To write you in words is to put a veil upon you.Why must I writewhen I can kiss you instead?

Love, they said, burns youand builds you.But with you, there’s no ash.Just light.

The world was fair, the mountains tallIn Elder Days before the fall...

Don't need a magic carpet to soar or wings to fly. I simply close my eyes and place my soul against the sky.

I was running on the earth,Slashing primeval winds.I was running in the world,Riddled with darkness.

What is poetry? The person who answers it, can't be a poet!

Maka pada suatu pagi hari ia ingin sekali menangis sambil berjalan tunduk sepanjang lorong itu. Ia ingin pagi itu hujan turun rintik-rintik dan lorong sepi agar ia bisa berjalan sendiri saja sambil menangis dan tak ada orang bertanya kenapa.Ia tidak ingin menjerit-jerit berteriak-teriak mengamuk memecahkan cermin membakar tempat tidur. Ia hanya ingin menangis lirih saja sambil berjalan sendiri dalam hujan rintik-rintik di lorong sepi pada suatu pagi.

Like a sculptor, if necessary,carve a friend out of stone.Realize that your inner sight is blindand try to see a treasure in everyone.

Life eats life to live.

How to raise sons who respect women:Never give them the opportunity to see you disrespect yourself.

He [the poet] brings out the inner part of things and presents them to men in such a way that they cannot refuse but must accept it. But how the mere choice and rhythm of words should produce so magical an effect no one has yet been able to comprehend, and least of all the poets themselves.

Cuando vayamos al maryo te diré mi secreto:Me envuelve, pero no es ola...Me amarga..., pero no es sal...

victor hugo, Les Contemplations, MorsJe vis cette faucheuse. Elle était dans son champ. Elle allait à grands pas moissonnant et fauchant, Noir squelette laissant passer le crépuscule. Dans l'ombre où l'on dirait que tout tremble et recule, L'homme suivait des yeux les lueurs de la faulx.Et les triomphateurs sous les arcs triomphaux Tombaient ; elle changeait en désert Babylone, Le trône en échafaud et l'échafaud en trône, Les roses en fumier, les enfants en oiseaux,L'or en cendre, et les yeux des mères en ruisseaux. Et les femmes criaient : - Rends-nous ce petit être. Pour le faire mourir, pourquoi l'avoir fait naître ? -Ce n'était qu'un sanglot sur terre, en haut, en bas ; Des mains aux doigts osseux sortaient des noirs grabats ; Un vent froid bruissait dans les linceuls sans nombre ; Les peuples éperdus semblaient sous la faulx sombre Un troupeau frissonnant qui dans l'ombre s'enfuit ; Tout était sous ses pieds deuil, épouvante et nuit.Derrière elle, le front baigné de douces flammes, Un ange souriant portait la gerbe d'âmes.

Tongue on your words to taste you thereCouldn’t   read what youhad never written therePlayed your message overfeeling badPlayed your message over it was all I hadTo tell me what and whereforethis is what it said:I’m tired of you asking me whyI’m tired of words like the chatter of birdsGive me a pass, let me just get by

Receio que a poesia é pior que o sexo tântrico: não mexe nem sai de cima.I'm afraid that poetry is worse than tantric sex: it does not not move or get off.

Don't ask her to be a rock for you to lean uponinstead, build her wingsand point her to the skyand she will teach you both to fly.

Being married or being in a close relationship is not based on how quickly you can get offended but on how you are ready to drop the offences, get over it and move ahead.

My mouth is a fire escape.The words coming outdon’t care that they are naked.There is something burning in there.

the impossibility of being humanall too humanthis breathingin and outout and inthese punksthese cowardsthese championsthese mad dogs of glorymoving this little bit of light towardusimpossibly.

My mama steps out of her dressand drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet.She stands alone: bathed, blooming,burdened with nothing of this world.Her body is naked and beautiful,her wings gray and scorched,her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine.I watch her departure, her flapping wings:She doesn’t look back, not even once,not even to whisper my name

When no one is looking,I swallow deserts and cloudsand chew on mountainsknowing they are sweet bones!When no one is lookingand I want to kiss God,I just lift my own hand to my mouth.

That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.

Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.

It ain't so easy writing about nothin

Wrote you a poem or two. You didn’t enjoy them, but I did for you.

you giver of light.you lover of love.you beautifulbeautifulhuman being you.

I wouldn't coax the plant if I were you.Such watchful nursing may do it harm.Let the soil rest from so much diggingAnd wait until it's dry before you water it.The leaf's inclined to find its own direction;Give it a chance to seek the sunlight for itself.Much growth is stunted by too careful prodding,Too eager tenderness.The things we love we have to learn to leave alone.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”But I say unto you, they are inseparable.Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

their heart grew coldthey let their wings down

You might as well ask an artist to explain his art, or ask a poet to explain his poem. It defeats the purpose. The meaning is only clear thorough the search.

Lies I've told my 3 year old recently Trees talk to each other at night.All fish are named either Lorna or Jack.Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose.Tiny bears live in drain pipes. If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky.The moon and the sun had a fight a long time ago.Everyone knows at least one secret language.When nobody is looking, I can fly.We are all held together by invisible threads.Books get lonely too.Sadness can be eaten.I will always be there.

I could burn this place downAs many times as I'd like in my mind,Without any sympathy For the girl or her motherWho live beneath me

The nature of poemsIs a matter of words and deedsAn intimate encounter of voiceIn the ache of the heartIn the labor of breathingA hesitant casting of eyesAway from the mundane to seeThat delicate and shiny thingIn the oddly prosaic rock pileAn extravagance of conceitAn abundance of graceA prayer for words to speak