Poetry Quotes - Page 72

I swear that girl was born with a pen in her hand, the moon in her hair, and stars in her soul.

Logic, when applied to people, fails miserably!

I left the bankbecause they wouldn’t deposit my cheque of poems.So I went to the store,but they didn’t acceptmy currency of words.So I boxed all my storiesand took them to charity.But they refused my donation and asked me to give blood instead.I opened the notebooks and made them look, 'What do you think I wrote these in?

Let me not fear defeat or death,Let me not fear being forgotten,Let my defiance sustain my soul,Let it remain with me ever after.Poem: Prayer to the God of Rebellion, in ‘Chameleon Lights

Having experimented in both poetry and prose, I can say that the two are such loaded words. But neither are quite as weighted as the word “poet”. I think some people can write poetry their whole lives, and never truly BE a “poet”. Whereas I see poets in the wanderers I encounter, the baristas who serve me, and the truckers I, so, love to talk to.To be a poet in my humble opinion is to be a muse of the human experience. I love that I love the idea, that anything can be poetry, it can’t be defined. It’s a feeling, like punk rock. I’m not one for form or structure. I say if your words are visceral and honest, it’s poetry. If you see the beauty of the world and humanity, and you preach it, you’re a poet.

This fire that we call Loving is too strong for human minds. But just right for human souls.

A young gratuitous smile; trust and distrust;Promiscuities of bed and board and road; The one assured treasureA life, in recollection, truly possessed.

Glossa Time goes by, time comes along,All is old and all is new;What is right and what is wrong,You must think and ask of you;Have no hope and have no fear,Waves that rise can never hold;If they urge or if they cheer,You remain aloof and cold. To our sight a lot will glisten,Many sounds will reach our ear;Who could take the time to listenAnd remember all we hear?Keep aside from all that patter,Seek yourself, far from the throng When with loud and idle clatterTime goes by, time comes along.Nor forget the tongue of reasonOr its even scales depressWhen the moment, changing season,Wears the mask of happiness -It is born of reason's slumberAnd may last a wink as true:For the one who knows its numberAll is old and all is new.Be as to a play, spectator,As the world unfolds before:You will know the heart of matterShould they act two parts or four;When they cry or tear asunderFrom your seat enjoy alongAnd you'll learn from art to wonderWhat is right and what is wrong.Past and future, ever blending,Are the twin sides of same page:New start will begin with endingWhen you know to learn from age;All that was or be tomorrowWe have in the present, too;But what's vain and futile sorrowYou must think and ask of you;For the living cannot severFrom the means we've always had:Now, as years ago, and ever,Men are happy or are sad:Other masks, same play repeated;Diff'rent tongues, same words to hear;Of your dreams so often cheated,Have no hope and have no fear.Hope not when the villains clusterBy success and glory drawn:Fools with perfect lack of lusterWill outshine Hyperion!Fear it not, they'll push each otherTo reach higher in the fold,Do not side with them as brother,Waves that rise can never hold.Sounds of siren songs call steadyToward golden nets, astray;Life attracts you into eddiesTo change actors in the play;Steal aside from crowd and bustle,Do not look, seem not to hearFrom your path, away from hustle,If they urge or if they cheer;If they reach for you, go faster,Hold your tongue when slanders yell;Your advice they cannot master,Don't you know their measure well?Let them talk and let them chatter,Let all go past, young and old;Unattached to man or matter,You remain aloof and cold.You remain aloof and coldIf they urge or if they cheer;Waves that rise can never hold,Have no hope and have no fear;You must think and ask of youWhat is right and what is wrong;All is old and all is new,Time goes by, time comes along.

The U.K. should begin with an FAnd have a C after the U,And it should end in E DNow that we’ve left the E.U.

I want to tell you why poetry is worth thinking about - from time to time. Not all the time. Sometimes it's a much better idea to think about other things.Most of us have a short period of intense thinking about poetry, when we take a class in college, and then that's about it. And that's really all you need. One intense time, when you master your little heap of names - Andrew Marvel, Muriel Rukeyser, Christina Rosetti, Hardy, Auden, Bishop, Marvin Bell, Ted Hughes, John Hollander, Nicholas Christopher, Deborah Garrison, whoever, James Wright, Selima Hill, Troy Jollimore. Whoever they may be. Every so often you remember them. If you've memorised some poems, the poems will raise a glimmering finger in your memory once in a while, and that's very nice, as long as you keep it to yourself. Never recite. Please! If you recite, your listeners will look down and play with their cuticles. They will not like you. But sometimes if you quote just a phrase in passing, that can work. Like this: "As Selima Hill says: 'A really good fuck makes me feel like custard.

Ripe summer's sweetness drippedin pearls from every treeand into my opened hearta little drop ran down.

(This is from a tribute poem to Ronnie James Dio: Former lead vocalist of the band Rainbow, Black Sabbath. This is written with all the titles of the hit songs of DIO. The titles are all in upper case)You can “CATCH THE RAINBOW” –“A RAINBOW IN THE DARK”Through “ROCK & ROLL CHILDREN”“HOLY DIVER” will lurk“BEFORE THE FALL” of “ELECTRA”“ALL THE FOOLS SAILED AWAY”“JESUS,MARY AND THE HOLY GHOST”-“LORD OF THE LAST DAY”“MASTER OF THE MOON” you areWhen my “ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE”With our “BLACK”, “COLD FEET”,“MYSTERY” of “PAIN” you craveYou’re “CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE”,“BETWEEN TWO HEARTS”When “HUNGRY FOR HEAVEN”“HUNTER OF THE HEART” hurts“FALLEN ANGELS” “FEED MY HEART”“FEVER DREAMS” “FEED MY HEAD”“I AM” “ANOTHER LIE”“AFTER ALL (THE DEAD)”Not “GUILTY” if you “HIDE IN THE RAINBOW’’With your perfect “GUITAR SOLO”“DON’T TELL THE KIDS” to “DREAM EVIL”Don’t “GIVE HER THE GUN” to follow“DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS”Those “EVIL EYES” can see“LORD OF THE NIGHT” “MISTREATED”;“MY EYES” hate to fancy“SHAME ON THE NIGHT” “TURN UP THE NIGHT”Now it’s “TIME TO BURN”“TWISTED” “VOODOO” does “WALK ON WATER”And today its our turn“BLOOD FROM A STONE” “BORN ON THE SUN”I’m “BETTER IN THE DARK” “BREATHLESS”The “PRISONER OF PARADISE” you are!Forever you are deathless“SACRED HEART” “SHIVERS”Laying “NAKED IN THE RAIN”“THIS IS YOUR LIFE”- “ WILD ONE”!Your “GOLDEN RULES” we gain“IN DREAMS” “I SPEED AT NIGHT”I’m “LOSING MY INSANITY”“ANOTHER LIE”: “COMPUTER GOD”Your “HEAVEN AND HELL”- my vanity!By “KILLING THE DRAGON”“I COULD HAVE BEEN A DREAMER”I’m “THE LAST IN LINE” To “SCREAM”Like an “INVISIBLE” screamerNow that you are gone“THE END OF THE WORLD” is here“STRAIGHT THROUGH THE HEART”“PUSH” “JUST ANOTHER DAY” in fear“CHILDREN OF THE SEA” “ DYING IN AMERICA”Is it “DEATH BY LOVE”?“FACES IN THE WINDOW” looking forA “GYPSY” from aboveDear “STARGAZER” from “STRANGE HIGHWAYS”Our love “HERE’S TO YOU”“WE ROCK” “ONE MORE FOR THE ROAD”The “OTHER WORLD” anew“ONE NIGHT IN THE CITY” with “NEON KNIGHTS”“THE EYES” “STAY OUT OF MY MIND”The “STARSTRUCK” “SUNSET SUPERMAN”Is what we long to find“THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING”Is the “INSTITUTIONAL MAN”“SHOOT SHOOT” to “TURN TO STONE”“WHEN A WOMAN CRIES” to planTo “STAND UP AND SHOUT”before “ THE KING OF ROCK AND ROLL”Though “GOD HATES HEAVY METAL”“EAT YOUR HEART OUT” to reach the goal.From the poem- Holy Dio: the Diver (A tribute to Ronnie James Dio)

Metaphor is a slippery eel, if it wasn't for its shock I'd stick to the easy catch of prose.

In a rich moonlit garden, flowers open beneath the eyes of entire nations terrified to acknowledge the simplicity of the beauty of peace.

Poetry, she thought, wasn't written to be analyzed; it was meant to inspire without reason, to touch without understanding.

Your breaking point will be a bloody refuge, not a clean slate.

You burn like a candleinside my soul,showing me a waythrough this darkness.

All writers are manipulative liars." Jack O. Savage, The Poet

I breathe in...the silenceof my own heartaching with tendernesswith memories..Of home.

The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.See how the roof glitters, like ice!Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.

You read and write and sing and experience, thinking that one day these things will build the character you admire to live as. You love and lose and bleed best you can, to the extreme, hoping that one day the world will read you like the poem you want to be.

These poems are cupsthat I pour my life into.Here, Drink!

My favorite words in the world are t

This is love: to fly toward a secret sky,to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.First, to let go of life.In the end, to take a step without feet;to regard this world as invisible,and to disregard what appears to be the self.Heart, I said, what a gift it has beento enter this circle of lovers,to see beyond seeing itself,to reach and feel within the breast.

Always be a poet, even in prose.

...flames moved towards himand dropped within-singed and marred his tender skin ...(the frightful plight tale)

There's two kinds of women--those you write poems about and those you don't.

The temporal heart resonates at whispersFrom a Truth overarchingOf whose countenanceTimeless Intellect yearns vainly to fathom

That night I didn’t say anything. I just watched you leave and in the end, I just stayed sleeping awake. Somewhere between a sweet dream and a beautiful nightmare, hoping one day you’d return to rid me of the demons you left behind.

You see demons in the eyes of the world, and the world sees bottomless pit in yours.

The same hot lightning that burns your blood with passion–– cools your fears with peace.

Like dandelions they flew across the expanse Of desert calm without advance They filtered through the stilled “become” Returning to the land they knew. They knew no more than where they flew. And so they gathered, one and all, And scattered it throughout their path. Only golden-shafted majesty could still their might. And so they flew onward, without a path.

Now is History as fast as the mind remembers.

I love the writers of my thousand books. It pleases me to think how astonished old Homer, whoever he was, would be to find his epics on the shelf of such an unimaginable being as myself, in the middle of an unrumored continent. I love the large minority of the writers on my shelves who have struggled with words and thoughts and, by my lights, have lost the struggle. All together they are my community, the creators of the very idea of books, poetry, and extended narratives, and of the amazing human conversation that has taken place across the millennia, through weal and woe, over the heads of interest and utility.

When you write in prose you say what you mean. When you write in rhyme you say what you must.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

Rain's pouring and it's too cold. All people bored and I even accord What to do but spell a tale told: So once upon a time a land in the shore...

I’m on a long journey around and through myself...

Blank pages are cruelPure torture in white or beigeBut how else to start

i have had my ups and downsbut wotthehell wotthehellyesterday sceptres and crownsfried oysters and velvet gownsand today i herd with bumsbut wotthehell wotthehelli wake the world from sleepas i caper and sing and leapwhen i sing my wild free tunewotthehell wotthehellunder the blear eyed mooni am pelted with cast off shoonbut wotthehell wotthehell

In the essence of truth lies deceit.

I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another til I drop.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep,downward, in the soaked guts of the earth,absorbing and thinking, eating each day.

She walked among the stars,The princess of the heavens,Looking for the one who caught her crystal tearsThat spilled out from liquid ice blue eyes-Rolling down pale cheeks-Then sealed up tenderly...In pearl alabaster jars...

In The Sunset SkyThe sunset sky dazzling with the golden hues, Taking bow in brilliant sparkle of experienceIs it not a climax, of the story so far, that was today?Or is it building anticipation of the night yet to come. Watch the days go, some proud of their accomplishmentsSome leaving sighs of disappointments, Leaving all in awe of its Amaranthine twists and turns And the fortunate get to see the moon trying to steal the show from setting sun,Oh she is such a show off, isn't she, basking in reflected gloryIts magical, the sunset sky,Puzzling, sometimes just like a riddle,Leaving the nature stunned and amazed For it has been filling the canvas whole day with colours And now the sunset threatens to hide them all And in dark all the colours will be sameA cue for the wise.Sunset sky has so much to offer, is she not a fine exampleof how uncertain a life can beOften reminding no matter what you planned, there will besome unexpected returnsFor End has its own brain, its own scriptCharting its own courseSo why just the beginning,every moment of the life should be grand, meted with equal passion and fervorShe has been so clever; the sunset skyLeaving Twinkling cryptic messages for the night skyFor even the dark has sparkle and hope if you keep your head up, A constant reminder that exuberance is an attitude of deep,rich, warm heartsI want my sunset sky to be grand, magical, and full of stories of my life that has been And its memories to linger on in this world, in the tomorrow and a few more years to come

I plan to be a sinner tonight. Could've been something else, but looked way too good in my red dress to be anything Christian.

The grave's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.

We wear many things,   but that with greatest import     is our expression.

What a comfort to know that God is a poet.

Lovers alone wear sunlight.

They are both spectacular, Life and death.

I love it when you meet an angel on Earth and they have no idea that's what they are; a human angel, an angel covered in skin. They hare the best kinds of humans to know. As your eyes widen, as you evolve and your soul is receptive, you will encounter and recognize these angels on Earth more and more.

OMG! I DESIGNED THIS NEW SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORM! IT'S CALLED "POETRY" - YOU HAVE TO READ AMY KING'S POEMS TO GET AN INVITE ~

Forcing the muse to let thoughts flow; equals to pushing a child, into labor.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

We remember though all the firelit glowOf a great hearth's gleam and glare,And we looked for a space at each happy faceAnd the love that was written there.

For me,you are fresh waterthat falls from treeswhen it has stopped raining. For me, you are cinnamon that lingers on the tongue and givesbitter wordssweetening.For me, you are the scent of violins and visionof valleys smiling.And still,for me, your loveliness never ends.It traverses the worldand finds its way back to me.Only me.

The essentials of poetry are rhythm dance and the human voice.

The world is always open, Waiting to be discovered.

Is there a better method of departure by night than this quiet bon voyage with an open book, the sole companion who has come to see you off, to wave you into the dark waters beyond language?