Poetry Quotes - Page 95

You are always new. THe last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass'd my window home yesterday, I was fill'd with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time...Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you.

Women invented misery, but we don't understand it.

it isn't that we're alone or not alonewhose voice do you want mine? yours?

America—where we hate our fathers, love our mothers, andeveryone is hung up on tryingto be a man

From chaos to lullabiesI watched herlive my thoughts,and soon enoughshe did becomemy favorite stony.She was everythingand with every wordshe drew me closer.She drew me into her story,a storyI knew I would neverbe able to understand.

There is a poem at the heart of things and a mythic story in the heart of each of us. At certain times it is the poetry of life and the mythic imagination of the soul that become necessary in order to heal the wounds inflicted by an excess of reason or an overuse of force.

It is not our job to remain whole.We came to lose our leavesLike the trees, and be born again,Drawing up from the great roots.

Be true to your word and your work and your friend.

Pina colada kisses and cocaine nipsnever lie, swear to me that this feeling is real.

In knowing you I, discovered my self.

Words have never belonged to those who wrote them. Always to those who needed then.

through the rose glass window in their beautiful new home, you stare at the love you gave away.

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.

Far away, our dreams have nothing to do with what we do. The wind carries the night, and passes on, aimless.

If God could transcribe my heart, it'd still read "I love you".

The artistic reward for refuting the received national tradition is liberation. The price is homelessness. Interior exile.

2.07 WALK OF LIFELife but like a cycle that you be riding,You will fall if you ever stop peddling,Life not of good cards you be holding,But those held and how you be playing.[68]t- 4

Conflict is much the same, injustice and inequality is nothing new to our generation only the contest has changed because not only that everyone has opinion but they also have an opportunity to voice it and that is a bit dangerous.

A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.

I walked a mile with Pleasure;She chatted all the way;But left me none the wiserFor all she had to say.I walked a mile with Sorrow;And ne’er a word said she;But, oh! The things I learned from her,When Sorrow walked with me.

In this quiet place on a quiet streetwhere no one ever finds usgently, lovingly, freedom gives back our pain.--from poem In a Quiet Place on a Quiet Street

Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.

Come, said my SoulSuch verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,)That should I after death invisibly return,Or, long, long hence, in other spheres,There to some group of mates the chants resuming,(Tallying Earth’s soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,)Ever with pleas’d smiles I may keep on,Ever and ever yet the verses owning — as, first, I here and now,Signing for Soul and Body, set to them my name,

LESLIE CHEUNG JUMPS OFF MY BUILDING CLOSES HIS EYES AND THEN SINGS A SONGWE BOTH KNOW AND LOVE// LESLIE CHEUNG SE TIRA DESDE MI EDIFICIOCIERRA SUS OJOS Y LUEGO CANTA UNA CANCIÓNQUE LOS DOS CONOCEMOS Y QUE NOS ENCANTA

Your friends, and your associates, and the people around you, and the environment that you live in, and the speakers around you - the speakers around you - and the communicators around you, are the poetry makers.If your mother tells you stories, she is a poetry maker.If your father says stories, he is a poetry maker.If your grandma tells you stories, she is a poetry maker.And that’s who forms our poetics.

Oh the stellar sensation,Oh the cosmic elevation;Time is sober in death,For the wine of love;Is the blue life of the earth.

Open the fridge and putMy heart on a plate.I'm just as you leftme, and I taste even betterleftover.

You can tell it's a poem because it's swimming in a little gel pack of white space. That shows it's a poem.

When the melody plays, footsteps move, heart sings and spirit begin to dance.

A poet must discover that it’s his own story that is true, even if the truth is small indeed.

Some plant lips on Mother Earth in a display of gratitude.Meanwhile, she is kissing the soles of your feet, recognizing the one to be worshiped is you.

If freedom is free and none need worry, then what blood drops for thee?

... And one day it dawned on me that I had spent entirely too much time waiting on you to grow a voice box.... and the balls to use it.

bad breath and butt smell; that is prison, in a nutshell.

You came into my life like the rain to the parched desert!

There lives a weeperin each of us-a silent mourner honoring our despairwhen our willingness slain by helplessness continues to resurrect to be slaughtered again

The statement ‘There is nothing more American than an Indian’ happens to be a multidimensional paradox. Try and not say too many of those. That might open your mind to ideas that could cause sanity point loss.

I’m back there again, broken from being a champion,The boy that no one loved,The years I spent training like a method actor toBecome the man that everyone admired,But it means nothing, Like ashes on a forehead, they marked me inferior,When I was still young enough to receive it into the grain of my being

Let borders become sunlight so we traverse this Earth as one nation and drive the darkness out.

Call me obsessed, color me consumedI’ve always been the type to noticeThe smell of a rose in bloom,But let me confess, this is newYou’ve stopped my heart, let it resumeAnd I, to finish, must tell it trueI’m high on your perfume.

It is growing cold. Winter is putting footsteps in the meadow. What whiteness boasts that sun that comes into this wood! One would say milk-colored maidens are dancing on the petals of orchids. How coldly burns our sun! One would say its rays of light are shards of snow, one imagines the sun lives upon a snow crested peak on this day. One would say she is a woman who wears a gown of winter frost that blinds the eyes. Helplessness has weakened me. Wandering has wearied my legs.

look, you know i don't wanna come on ungrateful, but that warren report, you know as well as me, just didn't make it. You know, like they might as well have asked some banana salesman from des moines, who was up in toronto on the big day, if he saw anyone around looking suspicious/...

The most complicated skill is to be simple.

O may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence; liveIn pulses stirred to generosity,In deeds of daring rectitude...

This empty shell holds nothing but the echoes of what was.

Wordsare powerfulforces of nature.they are destruction.they are nourishment. they are flesh. they are water.they are flowers and bone.they burn. they cleansethey erase. they etch. they can eitherleave youfeelinghomelessor brimmingwith home.

Poetry leads us to the unstructured sources of our beings, to the unknown, and returns us to our rational, structured selves refreshed. Having once experienced the mystery, plenitude, contradiction, and composure of a work of art, we afterward have a built-in resistance to the slogans and propaganda of oversimplification that have often contributed to the destruction of human life. Poetry is a verbal means to a nonverbal source. It is a motion to no-motion, to the still point of contemplation and deep realization.

When everything hurries everywhere, nothing goes anywhere.

The Sodomy sea shall cast out fish, and make a noise in the night, which many have not known: but they shall all hear the voice thereof.

If you wake with a change of direction, deciding you hate who you've been,Remember, I loved you every yesterday as I will continue to love you then.Whomever person you become I shall worship and whatever path you pave I will follow,Because I loved you every yesterday and I will love you every tomorrow.

And marbled clouds go scudding byThe many-steepled London sky.

I wanted all thingsTo seem to make some sense,So we could all be happy, yes,Instead of tense.And I made up liesSo that they all fit nice,And I made this sad worldA par-a-dise.

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires.

Even lungs that are gasping are lungs that are trying.

Forever, if she promises to never part the ocean where the river sings.

I come into the peace of wild thingswho do not tax their lives with forethoughtof grief. I come into the presence of still water.And I feel above me the day-blind starswaiting with their light. For a timeI rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

MISERABLERelease the toxic and infectious-Spreaders of misery,Souls destroying souls-And poisonous liars.Awaken from the hallucinations-And take back your heart.Reclaim your self-esteem-And leave the toxic be.

Great poets are great copy editors.

The night is the balm for the wounded soul!

No matter how many times I break...I will repair.No matter how many times I tear...I will sew." -From "Towards Peace in a More Natural Order