Poetry Quotes - Page 78

For now, poetry has the capacity - in its own ways and by its own means - to remind us of something we are forbidden to see.

I was born one thousand times and all the while it was you I met again to only meet again under the thousand stars that divide us and connect us.

Some of us cover to protect our bodiessome of us cover to protect our soulsin both cases,respect their choices.

When I was a boy I felt that the roll of rhyme in poetry was to compel one to find the un-obvious- because of the necessity of finding a word which rhymes. This forces novel associations, and almost guarantees deviations from routine chains or trains of thought. It becomes, paradoxically, a sort of automatic mechanism of originality.

Poets often describe love as an emotion that we can't control, one that overwhelms logic and common sense. That's what it was like for me. I didn't plan on falling in love with you, and I doubt if you planned on falling in love with me. But once we met, it was clear that neither of us could control what was happening to us. We fell in love, despite our differences, and once we did, something rare and beautiful was created. For me, love like that has happened only once, and that's why every minute we spent together has been seared in my memory. I'll never forget a single moment of it.

Now that Karen has been resurrected, I can travel beyond the black mirror. I can discover who I have lost with thefloating hearts and severed heads of my medicine. I must now whisper my other friends back too. I’m sad they’re gone…sad and blue.

they saythey only wantflowersto grow frommy mouth,so i willlook themdeadin theeyeas ishovesoft petalspastmy lips,chewwithmy jawcompletelyunhinged,& spitthemdownattheir feet-i will never be your expectations of me

I believed even then that if I could transform my experience into poetry I would give it the value and dignity it did not begin to possess on its own. I thought too that if I could write about it I could come to understand it; I believed that if I could understand my life—or at least the part my work played in it—I could embrace it with some degree of joy, an element conspicuously missing from my life.

What man is able to do that, that thou should ask such things of me?

Sitting in a corner, I live like a toad Oh! How I love my room: my tiny abode! Here I wake up; and I sleep in hereThe world far away; yet virtually near Not that I'm jailed in this place of graceJust don't want to face another face

Logic has rid us of the absurdity of our clothes. That’s progress, no irony, only now we are cold. Hale and ill trade bodies with unusual willingness, while in midair souls tangle. The young start out disgusted and Poetry is left to the memo-writers.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Shut lips, sleeping faces,Every stopped machine,The dumb and littered placesWhere crowds have been:.All silences rejoice,Weep (loudly or low),Speak-but with the voiceOf whom, I do not know.

Read the lines as if they were unknown to you, and you will feel in your inmost self how very much they are yours.

When he is most powerful, nothing does he become.

As to whether a poem has been written by a great poet or not, this is important only to historians of literature. Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that I have written a beautiful line; let us take this as a working hypothesis. Once I have written it, that linedoes me no good, because, as I’ve already said, that line came to me from the Holy Ghost, from the subliminal self, or perhaps from some other writer. I often find I am merely quoting something I read some time ago, and then that becomes a rediscovering. Perhaps it is better that a poet should be nameless.

Show me slowly what I onlyknow the limits ofDance me to the end of love

...I see you as series of gestures, a palette of colors -all these tiny tiles pixelate, and then coalesce... into the idea of you...

Heart, we will forget him!You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you’re lagging,I may remember him!

Blessed is the covenant of love, the covenant of mercy, useless light behind the terror, deathless song in the house of night.

At the round earth's imagined corners blowYour trumpets, angels, and arise, ariseFrom death, you numberless infinitiesOf souls, and to your scattered bodies go ;All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies,Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyesShall behold God, and never taste death's woe.But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ;For, if above all these my sins abound,'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,Teach me how to repent, for that's as goodAs if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood.

I chase the wind and get lost in the clouds. I'm sweep into darkness in my search for the light.

Maybe I should just lie quietly inside you while our old selves slip in and out of the back rooms of the soul.

I think a lover, when broken, is given a gift not a scar, not a poem, not a rhyme (unless it fits.) I think as humans, we see a set of hues but when wounded, we see something more: deeper shades of hurt and worry, colors never seen before. Because I can’t imagine a child could see the same black as a widower, and I don’t think healthy hearts know the true meaning of blue. When children close their eyes, they see a color they call empty. But in the eyelids of the bruised, the empty black’s a crowded room.

indelible waitingl'art poetique"..I will wait for the night to chase me..."I sit on a rock and watch children playingin the park belowThey don't see meOr know my thoughtsOr that you haven't calledBut I forgive them their indifference todayAbove me a crow cawsPerhaps he smells the crumbs on my dressOr my angerBut he flits away over the treesProbably has a homeProbably has a wifeProbably knew to callThe children leaveThe coffee in my can turns coldThe wind nips at meSome street lights flicker onBut I won't moveNot yetI will wait for the night to chase meBack where I came fromUp the empty streetTo a quiet house

Miracles happen, lyrical inhalation of poetry, you will not stop my words from breathing.

Things change, time changes. People change, life changes. Time changes things, life changes people.

Poetry is a life-cherishing force.

Only in thoughtful dialogue with what it says can this fragment of thinking be translated. However, thinking is poetizing, and indeed more than one kind of poetizing, more than poetry and song.

My poetry is the highest valuable thing I have to make you smile...

A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.

If I can see pain in your eyes then share with me your tears. If I can see joy in your eyes then share with me your smile.

The things you struggle with today are the things you choose to struggle with.Because you believe that what you want to accomplish, is worth struggling for.

My feelings are too loud for words and too shy for the world.

The war to preserve the privilege of mythmaking

The books [poetry collections] may not sell, but neither are they given away or thrown away. They tend, more than other books, to fall apart in their owners’ hands. Not I suppose good news in a culture and economy built on obsolescence. But for a book to be loved this way and turned to this way for consolation and intense renewable excitement seems to me a marvel.

poetrymelts my bones.enters my blood.and changesits composition.

Some men are born sodomites, some achieve sodomy, and some have sodomy thrust upon them...

We the mortals touch the metals,the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,knowing they will go on, inert or burning,and I was discovering, naming all the these things:it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

Poetry is the yearning of the soul to break free!

Everything you invent is true: you can be sure of that. Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry.

I breathe in... The sights and smells Of this city I’ve come to know... So well I gaze... Across the turquoise ocean Where the waves Liberate my spirit... From its shell I breathe in... The brilliant sky line Where the birds Emerge shyly From the dappled sunshine I breathe in... The gently... Blowing winds That soothe me Like a mother, around her child I breathe in... The sounds of laughter Pure and pretty Like the golden-green butterfly I’m always after I breathe in... The closeness, I have always shared With people, Who almost knew me, Almost cared I breathe in... The comfort Of my home, The safe walls, The scents of childhood On the pillows I breathe in...the silence Of my own heart Aching with tenderness... With memories.. Of home I breathe... in... The fragrance Of love, and moist sand The one... His roses left... On both my hands And I just keep on breathing Every moment As much as I can Preserving it, in my body For the day It can’t So I breathe in.. Once again.. Feeling life's energy Fizzing through my cells Never knowing What awaits me Or what's going to happen to me.. Next I breathe in This moment... Knowing it's either life Or it's death I close my eyes, And breathe in Just believing in myself.

Thou art sore troubled in mind for the people in the world’s sake: loves thou that people better than he that made them?

Sometimes we must gravitate towards madness before we can levitate on greatness.

What makes us leave what we love best?What is it inside us that keeps erasing itselfWhen we need it most,That sends us into uncertainty for its own sakeAnd holds us flush there until we begin to love itAnd have to begin again?What is it within our own lives we decline to liveWhenever we find it, making our days unendurable,And nights almost visionless?I still don't know yet, but I do it.

Pain is an old friend who left briefly and has now returned. Starvation without sustenance, I had grown acquaint. Satiety was a stranger who invaded my deepest being, and now I cannot live without.

I embraced a cloud,but when I soaredit rained.

Come, let us speak with our bodies.Teach me how to please you.I am here to learn.Let us not waste this time.It is the hour of union.ComeAnd after you do,Come again.

I speak of new cities and new peopleI tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,a sun dropped in the west.I tell you there is nothing in the worldonly an ocean of tomorrows.a sky of tomorrows.I am a brother of the cornhuskers who sayat sundown:Tomorrow is a day.”- Carl Sandburg, Cornhuskers

It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Poetry is a never ending journey.

You can't hold someone whoWants to leaveYou can't clutch a memoryAs if it were todayYou can't take an insultClose to heartYou can't grasp for gloryFrom your chairYou can't seize lifeThinking only of lossAnd you can't grab a laser pointer dotOn the wallNo matter how much you tryThese hard-earned truths I give to you

She knows he's not the same. He's different now. The eyes that once held too much contain nothing at all. He is colorless. Faded like sun-drenched wallpaper. The man that stands before her has no answers to her questions, and no ointment for her fears.

Talent is a faucet. When it is on, one must write. Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.

Love, bemysticalas the flickering blue flameof nightas the fully-awokenmoonbeneath cobwebsof passing cloudsamidst chantinghigh-tidesfuzzy,as my blanketbig enough to illuminate a hundredthousand billion galaxiesand just small enough to fitinto my embrace.

Truth is hard-hearted and unrelenting, too clear, precise; a lie is much more imaginative.

The sky was like ebony and the only illumination was the harsh white light of the central streetlamp, which cast shadows so hard it seemed you might cut yourself on them.

Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky, We fell them down and turn them into paper,That we may record our emptiness.

when I drive the freeways I see the soul of humanity ofmy city and it's ugly, ugly, ugly: the living have choked theheartaway.