Poetry Quotes - Page 81

Digging deep inside you as a writer will damn near kill you at times. But in the end, your words will be true and undeniable for the reader, and that is all that ever really matters in writing.

Though fervent was our vow,Though ruddily ran our pleasure,Bliss has fulfilled its measure,And sees its sentence now.Ache deep; but make no moans:Smile out; but stilly suffer:The paths of love are rougherThan thoroughfares of stones.

I'm like the weather, never really can predict when this rain cloud's gonna burst; when it's the high or it's the low, when you might need a light jacket.Sometimes I'm the slush that sticks to the bottom of your work pants, but I can easily be the melting snowflakes clinging to your long lashes.I know that some people like:sunny and seventy-five,sunny and seventy-five,sunny and seventy-five,but you take me as I am and neverforget to pack an umbrella.

I have to find a place to hideAn island in the seaSurrounded by a racing tideWhere I can live with me

Each timewe bow to thefeet of anythingwe find riveting,the mind rises tobe surprised withnew crowningdiamonds ofcreativity.

can't even sleep through the night without you and those sun-dried ginger ale complected limbs crocheted into my thighs...

Dreams are the poetry of life to be written with love and actions.

I contemplate the impossible and achieve madness. This is my blessing. This is my curse. My heaven, my hell.

If I say your voice is an amber waterfall in which I yearn to burn each day, if you eat my mouth like a mystical rose with powers of healing and damnation, If I confess that your body is the only civilization I long to experience… would it mean that we are close to knowing something about love?

noone knows and noone seeswe lovers doing what we pleasebut people stop and point at theseten milk bottles a-turning into cheese

A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone's knowledge of himself and the world around him.

Rainer Maria Rilke greeted and wrestled with the angels of his Duino Elegies in the solitude of a castle surrounded by white cliffs tall trees and the sea. I greeted most of mine in the solitude of a house that still vibrated with the throbs of a singular life that had helped shape many lives and with the ache of attempts to render useful service to that life. The River of Winged Dreams was therefore constructed as a link between dimensions of past and future emotions and intellect and matter and spirit.

I can sense your love,why leave me in darkness?Beguile me for your amusement,stealing my soul without kisses. You are the sun and I, the moon. Your beauty is reflected in my eyes.When we are apart, I am extinguishedin the blackness of these skies.

Even in the broken state, my mind find waysto connect with you.

I'm Noah, and you are the ship coasting along the banks and as long as you are my valentine I will sail between your eyes..

When you part from your friend, you grieve not;For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, asthe mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

choose your words well(be honest, be true)butabove all else,be kind

I spit into the face of Time That has transfigured me.

Where do they go, these dreams of mine? Do they live? Do they die? Do they fall? Do they fly?

Open the doors of your heart and they will come…And for every cruel arrow,Sweet caresses of delirium alsoTo nourish your soul.

When you committed to love me, cherish me, be only with me, protect my heart, I took all that literally. Silly me.

Snow harder! Snow more!Snow blizzards galore!I can’t get enoughOf the fluffy white stuff!Snow! Snow! Snow!Snow a ton! Snow a heap!Snow ten feet deep!I wouldn’t cryIf it snowed til July.Snow! Snow! Snow!

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.

It is almost as thoughsomething else is breathingquite close by, invisibly.The mystery of the names…Albizzia. Gleditsia.Aucuba japonica. AndI am listening, seeing. Seeing,like someone twice alive.

It's 4am again and I'm just getting started. People are boring and I want to burn with excitement or anger and bleed, bleed through my words. I want to get all fucked up and write real and raw and ugly and beautifully. I bet you're sleeping safe and calm, and you can stay there, it's safer there, and you wouldn't stand one night on this journey my mind wanders off to every night you close your eyes. I'll stay here one day and I will never come down. I promise I can fly before I hit the ground. It doesn't even hurt anymore. I swear, it doesn't hurt.

Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

Out of love,No regrets--Though the goodnessBe wasted forever.Out of love,No regrets--Though the returnBe never.

So, the world happens twice--once what we see it as;second it legends itselfdeep, the way it is.

Those lips that Love's own hand did makeBreathed forth the sound that said, 'I hate'To me that languished for her sake,But, when she saw my woeful state,Straight in her heart did mercy come,Chiding that tongue that ever sweetWas used in giving gentle doom,And taught it thus anew to greet:'I hate,' she altered with an endThat followed it as gentle dayDoth follow night, who like a fiendFrom Heaven to Hell is flown away.'I hate' from hate away she threwAnd saved my life, saying 'not you'.

What does infinity mean to you? Are you not infinity and yourself?

I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though I had wings.

We left dents on each other. Mine was in her heart, and hers was on my car.

For with his little secret that he cannot divulge, the poet buys this power of the word to tell everybody else's dark secrets. A poet is not an apostle; he drives out devils only by the power of the devil.

Prose lies its way to the truth

What, after all, is mathematics but the poetry of the mind, and what is poetry but the mathematics of the heart?

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.

I saw God wash the world last nightWith His sweet showers on high and then when morning came i saw Him hang it out to dryHe washed it each blade of grassand every trembling tree;He flung His showers against the hills and swept the rolling seathe white rose is a cleaner whitethe red, a richer redSince God washed every fragrant faceand put them to bedtheres not a bird theres not a beethe wings along the way but is a cleaner bird or beethan it was yesterdayi saw God wash the world last nightah would He wash meas clean of all my dust and dirtas that old birch tree!

Space is entirely poetic.

I hate the day, because it lendeth lightTo see all things, but not my love to see.

Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.

Let our scars fall in love.

You ask how it is possible to be your own father and son. You should seek answers, although it is better to anticipate some, to be the light and dream.

i love good cries,loud sobs that soak your pillowthat kind that come at the endof a perfect bookyou're gasping for airas droplets of salt water trickle down your cheeksinto the corners of your mouthas your chest rises and fallsand your vision is blurredby the tearsbut your mind is so clear and your every thoughtin that moment feels so meaningfuland important and rightit feels okay to justlet it all outit makes you feel likeyou are free

Written soul is called poetry

If I bet on humanity, I'd never cash a ticket.

There is a voice in my head that is only silenced by the scratching of my pen

The season was waning fastOur nights were growing cold at lastI took her to bed with silk and song,'Lay still, my love, I won’t be long...I must prepare my body for passion.''O, your body you give, but all else you ration.''It is because of these dreams of a sylvan scene...A bleeding nymph to leave me serene...I have dreams of a trembling wench.''You have dreams,' she said, 'that cannot be quenched.''Our passion,' said I, 'should never be feared...As our longing for love can never be cured...Our want is our way and our way is our will...We have the love, my love, that no one can kill.''If night is your love, then in dreams you’ll fulfill...This love, our love, that no one can kill.'Yet want is my way, and my way is my will,Thus I killed my love with a sleeping pill.

All this timeI drank you like the cure when maybeyou were the poison.

ld heads forgetful of their sins,Old, learned, respectable bald headsEdit and annotate the linesThat young men, tossing on their beds,Rhymed out in love’s despairTo flatter beauty’s ignorant ear.They’ll cough in the ink to the world’s end;Wear out the carpet with their shoesEarning respect; have no strange friend;If they have sinned nobody knows.Lord, what would they sayShould their Catullus walk that way?

You may continue to call it a breakup. I will continue to call it an exorcism.

Poetry is a good medium for revolutionary hope.

Life is the result of the choice we make.Imagine what it could beif only we were not afraid.

I walk at night under a moonless sky. Only the terrain guides my steps, yet my footfall is as sure as if a dozen suns lit the way. I go to meet you under a leafless tree that never seems to grow or alter its shape. I am uncertain if it still lives or has learned to disguise its death. The same thought crosses my mind when I feel your cold fingers take my hand. It is not the tree I reflect

You and I will be lost and found a thousand times along this cobbled road of us.

I found the best thingI could dowas just to type awayat my own workand let the dyingdieas they always have.

Sun shines above making diamonds of lightTink-tinkling, tap dancing and bright.from Atlantic Ocean, My Old Friend by Mommy Moo Moo

If negative emotions have gain access into your heart, it is because you have given it attention. If memories of pain and hurt dominates your heart, it is because you gave them attention. How can a memory hurt you when it has only happened? It can only hurt you when you give it attention.

You broughtme your darkness& I loved youwith the radianttears of athousand suns.

I can see myself before myself—A being through dark scenery.

It gives the war a whole new dimension, you know, hearing from someone right there in the thick of it. They really connected with it.’‘Maybe it reminds them of school,’ she suggests. ‘Didn’t someone describe the trenches as ninety-nine per cent boredom and one per cent terror?’‘I don’t know about boredom. God, the chaos of it, the brutality. And it’s so vivid. I’d definitely be interested in reading his poetry, if only to see how he can go from describing, you know, people getting their guts blown out, to writing about love.’‘Maybe it’s not that much of a leap,’ she says.