Poetry Quotes - Page 77

I have seen your darkest nights and brightest days and I want you to knowthat I will be here forever loving you in dusk.

I’ve reached the vanishing point without you.Here my heartache begins with your paintrying to find an unborn startin this fatal disappearanceFrom the poem ‘Me with the Vanishing Point

If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.

I forced myself out of a love that I knew would only end fatally.I forced myself into the dark, until I could no longer remember how to feel with my eyes. I forced my mind to believethat someone would hold youbetter than I ever could. But the worst part was selling my soulfor a price I know I'll never repay, and forcing myself into lovewith someone who wasn't you

Recuerdo que algún día yo le hablé de mi río y una como tormenta se agitó en sus estrañas. No sé si fue mi pecho que tembló de recuerdo o si fueron mis ojos que asomaron nostalgias." "I remember a day when I spoke of my river and something like a storm stirred in his being. Was it my breast that trembled with the memory Was it nostalgia that showed through my eyes

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.

In the Village IIIWho has removed the typewriter from my desk,so that I am a musician without his pianowith emptiness ahead as clear and grotesqueas another spring? My veins bud, and I am sofull of poems, a wastebasket of black wire.The notes outside are visible; sparrows willline antennae like staves, the way springs were,but the roofs are cold and the great grey riverwhere a liner glides, huge as a winter hill,moves imperceptibly like the accumulatingyears. I have no reason to forgive herfor what I brought on myself. I am past hating,past the longing for Italy where blowing snowabsolves and whitens a kneeling mountain rangeoutside Milan. Through glass, I am waitingfor the sound of a bird to unhinge the beginningof spring, but my hands, my work, feel strangewithout the rusty music of my machine. No wordsfor the Arctic liner moving down the Hudson, for the mangeof old snow moulting from the roofs. No poems. No birds.

How far away the stars seem, and how farIs our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!

The question ‘Why poetry?’ isn’t asking what makes poetry unique among art forms; poetry may indeed share its origins with other forms of privileged utterance. A somewhat more interesting question would be: “What is the nature of experience, and especially the experience of using language, that calls poetic utterance into existence? What is there about experience that’s unutterable?” You can’t generalize very usefully about poetry; you can’t reduce its nature down to a kernel that underlies all its various incarnations. I guess my internal conversation suggests that if you can’t successfully answer the question of “Why poetry?,” can’t reduce it in the way I think you can’t, then maybe that’s the strongest evidence that poetry’s doing its job; it’s creating an essential need and then satisfying it.

revenge was never my intention.-but it still tastes sweeter than honey

My love for Neo-Tokyo is a bulbous massof post-human organic circuitry.Cyperpunk is my mother tongue.My love is a man-machine interface gun.

The poet must be more useful than any other member if his tribe.

Most people in this country are looking for literature that is useful. They feel that just exploring their feelings is good enough - they should be reading about leveraged buy-outs or how to get thin. We live in a culture that is so absolutely, madly focused on commercialism and on creating money and completely turned away from any other kind of creative value. People don't generally turn to poetry unless they're bereaved or have fallen in love. Or in adolescence, when their feelings are very strong and turbulent. I think most of us are dying for lack of spirit in this culture.

If onlyyou could have witnessed howmuch I have changed: sit alonein a disused theatre and feel whatI have felt, see how the world hastransformed me, like the metamorphosisof a caterpillar.

LOVE the hideous in order to find the sublime core of it.

Wars, wars, wars': reading up on the region I came across one moment when quintessential Englishness had in fact intersected with this darkling plain. In 1906 Winston Churchill, then the minister responsible for British colonies, had been honored by an invitation from Kaiser Wilhelm II to attend the annual maneuvers of the Imperial German Army, held at Breslau. The Kaiser was 'resplendent in the uniform of the White Silesian Cuirassiers' and his massed and regimented infantry...Strange to find Winston Churchill and Sylvia Plath both choosing the word 'roller,' in both its juggernaut and wavelike declensions, for that scene.

your gazeacrossmy cheeksturned theminto strawberry fields.

And the Hippos were boiled in their tanks!

AimlesslyIt pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. NoOne listens to poetry.— from "Thing Language

Each morning the winds of the city moan and weep with lost souls clinging to hope of reliving the memories of yesterday.

Like poetry, in times of intense emotion the image returns to me. Like poetry, it stroked my soul and, by turns, lulled and stoked my senses.

I believe the visionaries and true reflections of society will be rewarded after their lives. Those being rewarded now are giving the public what it needs now, usually applauding its current state and clearing consciences.

I sat, a solitary man,In a crowded London shop,An open book and empty cupOn the marble table-top.While on the shop and street I gazedMy body of a sudden blazed;And twenty minutes more or lessIt seemed, so great my happiness,That I was blessed and could bless.

I keep following this sort of hidden river of my life, you know, whatever the topic or impulse which comes, I follow it along trustingly. And I don't have any sense of its coming to a kind of crescendo, or of its petering out either. It is just going steadily along.

Take away love and our earth is a tomb.

Some people wait to get flowers while others grow gardens.

Don't ask me any questions. I've seen how things that seek their way find their void instead.

To Your eyes a thousand years are like yesterday come and gone, no more than a watch in the night.You sweep men away like a dream, like grass which springs up in the morning.In the morning it springs up and flowers, by evening it withers and fades.So we are destroyed in Your anger, struck with terror in Your fury.Our guilt lies open before You; our secrets in the light of Your face.All our days pass away in Your anger. Our life is over like a sigh.Our span is seventy years or eighty for those who are strong. And most of these are emptiness and pain, they pass swiftly and we are gone.

...you disappoint me -I am the worst liar in the world - I can't hide my pain or my need so I make a bouquet of my sorrows and give them to you ...

Thus it is, we sow motions of hatred out of our own impoverished understanding of love. Yet we do so in the name of love. The perplexing precipice of the illusory infirmity.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,A tattered coat upon a stick, unlessSoul clap its hands and sing, and louder singFor every tatter in its mortal dress

...we went to watch the waves that bitter day and the wind took your red cap and mittens - blew them into the sea...

the inletour friend looks as he didwhen we first knew him,and until I wake I believeI will die of grief, for I knowthat this boy grew into a manwho was a faithful friendwho died.

Ô, Wanderess, WanderessWhen did you feel your most euphoric kiss? Was I the source of your greatest bliss?

One generation passes away, and another generation cometh forth: but the earth abides for ever.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpiresAt every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Anything is a poem if you say it often enough.

Look! Why want anything more marvellous than what is.

Don’t you dare say these times are hollowJust because there are storms raging by.Just lay low on your pillow,Close your eyes and say goodbyeTo the world that you lived in today.Let your dreams carry you away;You lived a nightmare all through the day,It is time to dream, so don’t delay.You searched for a reason to live,Yes darling, you searched everywhere.You had to push, you had to strive,It is time now to get some air.You searched in all that is outside,It is time now to look inside,Cause that is where you’ll findA reason worth keeping in your mind.These dreams are not an escape, darling,You need time to see past the lies that blind you.It is time for you to start runningTo those things that are true.So, don’t you dare say these nights are hollow,Just because there are storms raging by.Just lay low on your pillowAnd lose yourself in this lullaby.

Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.

She's vodka in a sexy lingerie and high heels.I'm always drunk.

Before verse can be human again it must learn to be brutal.

... time is how you spend your love ...

Well-wrought poems and works of imaginative literature can do for us what stone-cold prose can never do. They can help us grasp the full dimension of ways of life other than our own.

There were plenty of fishes in the pond,yet i fell in love with a crocodile.

When words lose their meaning, physical force takes over.

When it comes to matters of the heart and soul, I'm not a falling kind of girl. I'm more of a slamming, crashing, erupting...

The spirit, my love,is stronger than laughter,stronger than the hungry pantingof reckless lionsthat paw and shuffle underneath the canopy of bowed trees,stronger than the pace of a dying heart, that awaits to be pumped to life by episodes mothered by time,by hands of mankind,by slivers of hopehidden in the common mind.

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

People who are buried leaveBehind their memories.People feel sad for them andWorry, but for the living man,They are never sorry.This person, who is the sufferer,Will never be able to withstand,The chances snatched from him,He thinks, “Am I under a ban?”So he dies, and the world isForever in debtFor the man who facedDeath before his death.

That tingle in the brain is called a word.It bats itself against its fleshy bounds.

NowNow is the time…Now is the time – Make a changeNow is the time – All is strangeNow is the time – Start life anewNow is the time – Cannot stewHeartbreak, loss, pain, and challenges paleNow is the time – Sharp as a nailNow is the time – Take a chanceNow is the time – Sing and danceNow is the time – Make a changeNow is the time – engageNow is the time…

Enjoy yourselves. And Hap: Don't let Umber near the arrows and bows; he's liable to shoot himself in the nose." Dodd grinned and snapped the reins, and the carriage rolled away. Umber sniffed. "One of his lesser poems. Come, Hap.

I could have been 23 next July I gambled on what mattered most, the dice were cast. I lost.

And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd.

True and false fears let us refrain, Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Years and years unto years, till we attain To write threescore: this is the second of our reign.

No mark survives this place: you too will yieldto unmemory.

Youth endures all things, kings and poetry and love. Everything but time.

She might not have read many books. But when she reads a book, she swallows the very words. If you open the books on her shelves, you will find that the front and back covers encase white pages.

But as men grow more industrialised and regimented, the kind of delight that is common in children becomes impossible to adults because they are always thinking of the next thing and cannot let themselves be absorbed in the moment. This habit of thinking of the ‘next thing’ is more fatal to any kind of aesthetic excellence than any other habit of mind that can be imagined, and if art, in any important sense, is to survive it will not be by the foundation of solemn academies, but by recapturing the capacity for wholehearted joys and sorrows which prudence and foresight have all but destroyed.