Poetry Quotes - Page 82

Wondered to see, these luscious Flowers'' ''Blossoming everywhere, like drops of Shower'' ''WISH! My ecstasy would has that Power'' ''Days come true! those for me, are so Far'' ~Samar Sudha

Democracy! Bah! When I hear that I reach for my feather boa!

I am happy Because, IFound someoneTo BlameFor mistakesThank God &You mate,You endedMy suffocation.Amen

And when they dusted my mind for your fingerprints they found yours.

My Love wakes in a puddle of sunlight.Her hands asleep beside her.Her hair draped on the lawnlike a mantle of cloth.I give her my lifefor our love is wholeI sing her beauty in my soul.

You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your kneesfor a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.Meanwhile the world goes on.Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rainare moving across the landscapes,over the prairies and the deep trees,the mountains and the rivers.Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,are heading home again.Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,the world offers itself to your imagination,calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –over and over announcing your placein the family of things.

Pinecones. Little works of art. Prickly. Reminders of fall. Similar to pineapples. A sign of welcome.

Ode to the Chamber...linger here amidst the chamberin which we embrace our lovetalk to me of sonnetsand call me turtledove...

When there is noise and crowds, there is trouble; When everything is silent and perfect, There is just perfection and nothing To fill the air.

Nothingwould beeasier withoutyou,because youare everything,all of it-sprinkles, quarks, giantdonuts, eggs sunny-side up-youare the ever-expandinguniverseto me.

I placed a jar in Tennessee and round it was upon a hill.

Each in the most hidden sack keptthe lost jewels of memory,intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses,the fragment of public or private happiness.A few, the wolves, collected thighs,other men loved the dawn scratchingmountain ranges or ice floes, locomotives, numbers.For me happiness was to share singing,praising, cursing, crying with a thousand eyes.I ask forgiveness for my bad ways:my life had no use on earth.

The great lie that science has given us is that reality is material.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus; and we petty menWalk under his huge legs, and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonourable graves.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:Out of a misty dreamOur path emerges for awhile, then closesWithin a dream.

And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

I want to tie one thousand balloons around my neckand float upwhile slowly dying of happiness.

..home INSIDE is home shining brightly above all homes in physical world.

Are you just a car salesman or are you a poet too?” “I've never been accused of poetry before.

Fly’ GenerationWe stand tall, we stand proud, we are the ‘fly’ generationWe think what we learn to think and dream with our eyes openWe keep our hearts on our sleeves for it to be brokenbut we can take it, we are the ‘fly’ generation.We question things when we need to understandIts important we know, how it works, where we standWhy all this pain and no explanation?we need answers, we are the ‘fly’ generation.We love to hate and hate to love, what have we become?Since when is that the norm? when did we succumb?The victims will be forgotten and culprits will change faceBut we will still be running, running to win the invisible race.So here’s to the untold stories and six degrees of separationwe can take it, after all… we are the ‘fly’ generation.

Closed eyescan't sacrifice a third timei may never knowA dreamer's dreammy stars are onlymade of goldCame into this life holding onWas it a dream Or life lived beforeAlien genetics Formed on the 7thToo late So i was turned awayToo lateBut i seen those gatesIt’s just latelyi’ve forgot the wayWhat am i saying?somewhere out there is a starCovered in goldlaugh, its okayit's just best i wait this time can't sacrifice a third timehow will i knowfeverish devils place their bets the abyss or the flameBut at the edgei stop & look to the skytonight I find the stars are covered in gold so right here i will just stayHere i’ll just remain in a place where time and space does not existbut a gateway to Sarin does covered in golddeep in the chest you appearjust like I always knewa distant star

The Quiet WorldIn an effort to get people to lookinto each other’s eyes more,and also to appease the mutes,the government has decidedto allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day.When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup.I am adjusting well to the new way.Late at night, I call my long distance lover, I only used fifty-nine today. When she doesn’t respond,I know she’s used up all her words, thirty-two and a third times.After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.

you cross the field in the snow leaving tracks in perfect whiteness ...disturbing my placid universe...marking the landscape within me ...

Here, illuminated at last,Nestles the ruddy glint of spiritual certainty;Sweet moments of passion and healing,Of sensual release.

A Poet = A willingness to be vulnerable & to trust the inner voice.

No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead.

I'm Artistry through Fluent and Flowing Poetry in Motion and I'm Letting it Flow.....

Then you are a poet?' she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.'No not at all,' he waved his hand. 'I am merely a character in a poem.

Poetry is not difficult. If you possess one of the five senses, poetry is in it. If you can compose text message, tweet or Facebook status, you can write poetry. If you can rap a song, you can rhyme poetry. If you can memorise a prayer, you can recite poetry. If you struggle to make sense of formatted text, poetry is your call.

stayi whisperedas youshut the door behind you

Whiteness is the color of death, you know, not black. Wetness is life, the breeder and shaper of life. In the beginning the sun was black. So all light was absorbed before it had a chance to return. And our dreams, then, were empty.

I have waltzed with wolves and howled at the moon. But my heart will always remember the slow-dance that ended much too soon.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please,With too much spirit to be e'er at ease,With too much quickness ever to be taught,With too much thinking to have common thought:You purchase pain with all that joy can give,And die of nothing but a rage to live.

And this gray spirit yearning in desireTo follow knowledge like a sinking star,Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

savorwith methe lushnessof a lingering sleep...and last night’sdream.

As she bends for a Kleenex in the dark, I am thinking of other girls: the girl I loved who fell in love with a lion--she lost her head over it--we just necked a lot; of the girl who fell in love with the tightrope, got addicted to getting high wired and nothing else was enough; all the beautiful, damaged women who have come through my life and I wonder what would have happened if I'd met them sooner, what they were like before they were so badly wounded. All this time I thought I'd been kissing, but maybe I'm always doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, kissing dead girls in hopes that the heart will start again. Where there's breath, I've heard, there's hope.

Tonight, I decided to take a stroll down to my local liquor store. Maybe I’ll find a refreshment to wash down this full moon. I hate showing up & the clerk fucking knows my name, perhaps because I’m a regular. Anyways got my shit, left…barely covering the tax. Took the long way home; to get away from that haunting typewriter. Sat down at some park bench, as I started to open my poison; A memory rushed into me. A empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s under the Christmas tree. I thought my dad would want another drink, so started to pour my bottle into the dirt & cried.

contemporary poetry is a kind of Reykjavik, a place where accessibility and intelligence have been fighting a Cold War by proxy for the last half-century.

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee:The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,My heart is as some famine-murdered land Whence all good things have perished utterly, And well I know my soul in Hell must lieIf this night before God's throne should stand.

]Sardisoften turning her thoughts here]you like a goddessand in your song most of all she rejoiced.But now she is conspicuous among Lydian womenas sometimes at sunsetthe rosyfingered moonsurpasses all the stars. And her lightstretches over salt seaequally and flowerdeep fields.And the beautiful dew is poured outand roses bloom and frailchervil and flowering sweetclover.But she goes back and forth rememberinggentle Atthis and in longingshe bites her tender mind

There are three lessons I would write-Three words, as with a burning pen, In tracings of eternal light,Upon the heart of men.Have hope! though clouds environ round,And gladness hides her face in scorn,Put thou the shadow from thy brow,No night but hath its morn.Have love! not love alone for one, But man as man thy brother call,And scatter like the circling sun,Thy charities on all.

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,In vain our fate in sighs deplore;Remembrance only can remain,But that, will make us weep the more.

There's in my mind a...turbulent moon-ridden girlor old woman, or both,dressed in opals and rags, feathersand torn taffeta,who knows strange songsbut she is not kind.

forest paths – flat labyrinths – and gentle plains invite the walker’s body to softness, to languor. And memories arise like eddying mists. The air is more bracing with Nietzsche, and above all sharp, transparent. The thought is trenchant, the body wide awake, trembling.

The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and handand asshole holy!Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere isholy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's anangel!

I will try to disappoint youbetter than anyone else has.

He said he'd hurt himself against a wall or had fallen down.But there was probably some other reason for the wounded, the bandaged shoulder.With a rather abrupt gesture, reaching for a shelf to bring down some photographs he wanted to look at, the bandage came came undone and a little blood ran.I did it up again, taking my time over the binding; he wasn't in pain and I liked looking at the blood. It was a thing of my love, that blood.When he left, I found, in front of his chair, a bloody rag, part of the dressing, a rag to be thrown straight into the garbage; and I put it to my lips and kept it there a long while- the blood of love against my lips.

I want topeel away all the labelsI had once given to othersand place themupon the fabricof my own identity.They have reflected back to me,everything that I refuseto See in myself.

And all at once the heavy nightFell from my eyes and I could see, --A drenched and dripping apple-tree,A last long line of silver rain,A sky grown clear and blue again.And as I looked a quickening gustOf wind blew up to me and thrustInto my face a miracleOf orchard-breath, and with the smell, --I know not how such things can be! --I breathed my soul back into me.Ah! Up then from the ground sprang IAnd hailed the earth with such a cryAs is not heard save from a manWho has been dead, and lives again.About the trees my arms I wound;Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;I raised my quivering arms on high;I laughed and laughed into the sky

The things I call crisis and all the things that were coming after me are all coming to serve the purpose of God in my life.

If it chance your eye offends you,Pluck it out lad, and be sound:'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,And many a balsam grows on ground.And if your hand or foot offend you,Cut it off, lad, and be whole;But play the man, stand up and end you,When your sickness is your soul.

She's a tangled mess of wild- a forest nymph, a goddess child. She's like the seductive sea - feral and fierce, calm and serene. She's the starfish swimming in my soul, the woman child who keeps me sane, who keeps me whole.

It's her black wings that make her beautiful.

In God's presence I find peace that is much deeper than any disappointment. I will grow and I understand I can't grow myself, that is why I need God and His grace.

Being one’s true and honest self can often be dangerous; and poetry should always be a place where, if only between the pages, that danger and energy and fear and excitement and love can fizz and spark without ever threatening to burn something down.

In the middle of life, death comesto take your measurements. The visitis forgotten and life goes on. But the suitis being sewn on the sly.

What's madness but nobility of soulAt odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!I know the purity of pure despair,My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,That place among the rocks--is it a cave,Or winding path? The edge is what I have............... Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,Keeps buzzing at the sill.~From "The Waking" by Theodore Roethke

A rural Venus, Selah rises from thegold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweepspetals of water from her skin. At once,clouds begin to sob for such beauty.Clothing drops like leaves."No one makes poetry,my Mme.Butterfly, my Carmen, in Whylah,”I whisper. She smiles: “We’ll shape it withour souls.”Desire illuminates the dark manuscriptof our skin with beetles and butterflies.After the lightning and rain has ceased,after the lightning and rain of lovemakinghas ceased, Selah will dive again into thesunflower-open river.

I aspire to be an old man with an old wife laughing at old jokes from a wild youth.

My art is that of the 35mm kind; my poetry is of the lead and ink kind; my happiness is of the product of both; and my legacy is of the story of my soul, that my life left behind