Poetry Quotes - Page 83

They that be born in the strength of youth are of one fashion, and they that are born in the time of age, when the womb fail, are otherwise.

Root yourself in this earthand it will root itself in you.

A perfect poem owes its perfection to sounding the voice of the heart and the melodies of the conscience, as well as its ability to reflect the considerations, beliefs, opinions, and horizons of thought of the poet, but not due to its formal or mental aspects.

Voodoo GirlHer skin is white cloth,and she's all sewn apartand she has many colored pinssticking out of her heart.She has many different zombieswho are deeply in her trance.She even has a zombiewho was originally from France.But she knows she has a curse on her,a curse she cannot win.For if someone getstoo close to her,the pins stick farther in.

When did we revert back to sticks and shields,Uniform uniforms, stylized agenda reveals,Hiding behind glass with nods to our reflection,Blocking out the light that sparked the deception?Who do we see staring across the isle,A path once for feet now stretched into miles,Removed from our view to a place unseen,Forcing poisonous venom through a flickering screen?Where should we gather outside of the homes,But a place for the masses to manifest from their phones,The hatred and evil broadcasting the waves,Telling you daily, “Elvis lives and Jesus saves”?What could restart a flawed mental state,Built on cause and guilt for an unfulfilled faithIn policy, redemption, a nation self aware,Our values compressed and trapped in despair?How can we rise with the odds in their favor,Sedated once more, still waiting for a SaviorWilling to spare from thoughts profound?Stand tall, my friends, when the fool comes around.

World is suddener than we fancy it.

Un soir qu'ils étaient couchés l'un près de l'autre, comme elle lui demandait d'inventer un poème qui commencerait par je connais un beau pays, il s'exécuta sur-le-champ. Je connais un beau pays Il est de l'or et d'églantine Tout le monde s'y sourit Ah quelle aventure fine Les tigres y sont poltrons Les agneaux ont fière mine À tous les vieux vagabonds Ariane donne des tartines. Alors, elle lui baisa le la main, et il eut honte de cette admiration.

Verses which do not teach men new and moving truths do not deserve to be read.

Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, And life unto the bitter in soul; Which long for death, but it cometh not; And dig for it more than for hid treasures; Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave?

Right words are born in courage, which results from our struggle to make sense of our various predicaments. Cheer is what words are "trying to tell us/... It's native to the words/and what they want us always to know/even when it seems quite impossible to do.

I recall that now and I recall everything for what do we have but the past to parent us?

Once in a while i am struckall over again... by just how blue the sky appears .. on wind-played autumn mornings, blue enoughto bruise a heart.

Life is like facing two mirrors at each other: There is no beginning... no end.Just the beauty within the reflected infinity

Neither alive nor dead; No one lets up, No one wins.

Its dark and I’m reading my scars because our moments remind me of where I should be.

at home the bookshelves connected heaven and earth.

I bleed to un-break you,un-mending me.I fall to save you...now who will save me.

I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all?

If you ask me I think the greatest breakthrough each and everyone of us need is not on finance, marriage, work, relationship, own house, car but self. The first breakthrough should start from being selfish.

The truth is that, just as in the other imitative arts one imitation is always of one thing, so in poetry the story, as an imitation of action, must represent one action, a complete whole, with its several incidents so closely connected that the transposal or withdrawal of any one of them will disjoin and dislocate the whole. For that which makes no perceptible difference by its presence or absence is no real part of the whole.

I know you . . .That you hold insideVast possibilities and dreamsAnd limitless love.

With a chaste heart With pure eyes I celebrate your beautyHolding the leash of bloodSo that it might leap out and trace your outline Where you lie down in my Ode As in a land of forests or in surfIn aromatic loam, or in sea musicBeautiful nudeEqually beautiful your feetArched by primeval tap of wind or soundYour ears, small shellsOf the splendid American seaYour breasts of level plentitudeFulfilled by living lightYour flying eyelids of wheatRevealing or enclosingThe two deep countries of your eyesThe line your shoulders have divided into pale regionsLoses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple Continues separating your beauty down into two columns ofBurnished goldFine alabasterTo sink into the two grapes of your feetWhere your twin symmetrical tree burns again and risesFlowering fireOpen chandelierA swelling fruit Over the pact of sea and earth From what materialsAgate?Quartz?Wheat?Did your body come together?Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills The cleavage of one petal Sweet fruits of a deep velvet Until alone remainedAstonished The fine and firm feminine form It is not only light that falls over the world spreading inside your bodyYet suffocate itselfSo much is clarity Taking its leave of youAs if you were on fire within The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

Nothing conceivable is so petty, so insipid, so crowded with paltry interests, in one word, so anti-poetic, as the life of a man in the United States.

Music is not my life. My life is music.

It is strange how often a heart must be broken Before the years can make it wise.

we must bringour own lightto thedarkness.

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

Of what use is my going to church every day and still come home and remain the same? Of what use is my attending the mosques and the next day I enter the mall with knives and start slaughtering people in the name of religion.God is a God of variety. He was not stupid creating all of us different with our uniqueness.His creating us different shows the level of His creativity. He didn't make you white to hate black or vice versa. He made it so that we can cherish and love each other irrespective of our differences just as He loved us with all our flaws and our short comings.Can we forgive those who have offended us? Yes and some will say no but never forget that you are not worthy but God still forgives you even till the last hour of your life.If God can love us against all our atrocities why can't we learn to love one another.Take a look around you, you can only see sad faces. Was that really God's intention for us on earth? Absolutely not. But we have remoulded God's creativity to suit our taste and lifestyles and now we are reaping the fruit of our labour. You should not expect to reap love when you sowed the seed of hatred. What a man sows that he reaps. We sowed on weapons of war and we are yielding war in return. We have sowed on weapons of destruction so why are we asking for peace.If you ask me....I will say let's go back to our source. He has never lost any battle. I am a living witness.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony. The sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed. The order which we find in nature, and which is only an effect of art, would at once vanish. Everything would break up in chaos. There would be no seasons, no civilization, no thought, no humanity; even life would give way, and the impotent void would reign everywhere.

The talked about their messed-up, dysfunctional families, carefully respecting boundaries, never probing too deep in any one sitting. And they always ended up laughing. Even when the subject matter was intense or macabre, Henry’s sick and twisted and often politically incorrect sense of humor was infectious…Gloria laughed more in these first weeks at Oxford then she remembered laughing almost anywhere.

Being there doesn't mean I'm present. I exist only in words. I want to be transmuted fully to white page and ink.

I believe that open-heart surgery is a mustfor all human beings

There will alwaysa glimmer in thosewho have been through the dark.

Morning and eveningMaids heard the goblins cry:'Come buy our orchard fruits,Come buy, come buy

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

I just need you and some sunsets. 

There are good reasons to learn how to read. Poetry isn't one of them... Why can't poets just say what they want to say and then shut up?

let me diefrom having being drunk onindigo skies, my liver...overflowing with stars.

When Verlaine and Rimbaud were young,” [Snyder] said, they were protesting the iron-grip bourgeois rationality had on all aspects of nineteenth-century French culture— the manners, the view of reality, and the exclusion of ‘the wild’ from public life. Rationality in business and society were dominant values. ‘Deranging the senses’ was one strategy artists like Verlaine and Rimbaud employed to break free of that.“Today,” he continued, “the bourgeoisie is sociopathic, overindulged, distracted, spoiled beyond measure, and unable to restrain its gluttony, even in the face of pending planetary destruction. In the face of such a threat, it has, by necessity, become the responsibility of the artist to model health and sanity.

For me poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.

Poetry without truth, is like a rose without thorns.Still pretty,But sometime the real beauty comes from the things that can make us bleed.

How alive is thought, invisible, yet without thought there is no sight.

Some writers write to forget. Some forget to write.

I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man's. I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.

If everyone only gave a fraction of the compassion their hearts are capable of giving... how much suffering could we alleviate in this world?

I hear talk of that slippery slope, and my heart catches for a beat. But there is the musky truth I'm standing in that I can't deny, and it tastes of so much holy. That old way, the narrow line, I see now that was a slippery, saccharine surface where my soul could gain no purchase. For the first time, my feet feel sure beneath me, and that sense is twining its way up from my ankles, racing toward my knees, my thighs, my secret places, my heart. It's in my blood now, and I can't deny it. I can't deny it. I open my eyes, because I could see even through my clutched-closed lids that the darkness is light, that the blindness has given way to searing vision. I can't deny it.

Used to be hewas my heart's desire.His forthright gaze,his expert hands:I'd lie on the couch with my eyesclosed just thinking about it.Never about the factthat everything changes,that even this,my best passion,would not be immune.No, I would bask on in aneternal daydream of the handsfinding me, the gaze like a windingstair coaxing me down. . . .Until I caught a glimpseof something in the mirror:silly girl in her lingerie,dancing with the furniture--a hot little bundle, flush withcliches. Into that pairof too-bright eyes I lookedand saw myself. And something

If you want to annoy a poet, explain his poetry.

I put my faith in something unknown, beyond the moon, sun, and stars, one day I will own. I put my faith in something, renew. Beyond the rivers, deserts, mountains and valleys.One day it shall become new. I cannot renounce the struggle But yes, it’s what this destiny holds The pain is worst. My heart is whole and will not burst.I live on sweet nothing.I am tired of hope, when this dream is not in the scope. I told the pope, he told me to hold on to life and use the rope.I put my faith in you, this is too good to be true.

A black cat among roses,phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It is dazed with moonlight,contented with perfume...

I played God todayAnd it was fun!I made animals that men had never seenSo they would stop and scratch their headsInstead of scowling.I made words that men had never heardSo they would stop and stare at meInstead of running.And I made love that laughedSo men would giggle like childrenInstead of sighing.Tomorrow, perhaps, I won't be GodAnd you will know itBecause you won't see any three-headed catsOr bushes with bells on...I wish I could always play GodSo that lonely men could laugh!

THE AMPUTATED HEARTBEATS HARDER

Poets are damned… but see with the eyes of angels.

Stars ink your fingerswith a lexicon of flameblazing rare knowledge.

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

Your eyes are an Ocean!

A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.

The one who can draw your widest smileis also the one who can throw youto the farthest exile

In fact she herself once blamed meKyprogeneiabecause I prayed this word:I want.

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.