Poetry Quotes - Page 97

I know many lives worth living.

To heal, love.To understand, feel.To let go, forgive.To care, be kind.

Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

I would rather dance alone under the stars than spend a lifetime hiding behind the moon.

Poetry puts starch in your backbone so you can stand, so you can compose your life.

I keep my kindness in my eyes Gently folded around my iris Like a velvety, brown blanket That warms my vision I keep my shyness in my hair Tucked away into a ponytail Looking for a chance to escape On a few loose strands in the air I keep my anger on my lips Just waiting to unleash into the world But trust me; it’s never in my heart It evaporates into words I keep my dignity upon my chin Like a torch held up high For those who have betrayed me Radiating a silent, strong message I keep my gratitude in my smileA glistening waterfall in the sun Gently splashing at that personWho made me happy for some reason I keep my sensitivity in my hands Reaching out for your wet cheek Holding you, with all the love The love I want to share, and feel I keep my passion in my writing My words breathing like fire Screeching against an endless road As I continue to be inspired I keep my simplicity in my soul Spread over me like a clear sky Reflecting all that I am And all that’s ever passed me by And I hope you will look Beyond my ordinary faceMy simple, tied hairMy ordinary tastes And I hope you will see me From everyone...apart As I keep my beauty in my heart.

Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the whole history of English poetry has been de-termined by the fact that the English language lacks rhymes?

In the hours waking,when we're still all still,and you can hear the floorboards creaking,and you can feel the shades blow in,the night we slept with,we'll never kiss like that again.Our lips, will sever, our memories, will dissipate,and our shadows will be swallowed by the sky.

Every beginning has an end and every end has a new beginning, don't worry, broken soul, life will one day come to an end.

Complexity is not an aesthetic criterion. It is a quality associated only with division and organization of labor.

But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near

She had more of me then I had of myself. We were both wild birds chasing the stars. We’d lose our way and find new places, close our eyes and fall back towards a constellation of dreams. We wrapped ourselves in a blanket of passion and each night we fell deeper without control, into this strange space called love.

You are the calmest, fiercest person I know, and that is enough to draw me into your world and woo me into your heart. I've always enjoyed a good paradox and puzzle. You are no exception.

There is also a third kind of madness, which is possession by the Muses, enters into a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyric....But he, who, not being inspired and having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of art--he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman.

he pays his respect by smiling at youwhen others are looking how he calls you a bitchright after is truly amazing

She had the power to change the world but she couldn't save the one she loved.

But could words bethe end of me?

The skies bend, the time stops, the lanes move and the fires dance,It can mean only one thing that I am with you.You are enigmatic yet so beautiful that I have lost my sense, You are as immaculate as the unadulterated morning dew And your beauty leaves me in a mystified trance.I do not foresee what you and I will beBut I promise to be with you till the rocks keep meeting the sea.

We made the choice, right there in our local coffee shop, that we were going to do things differently. We were going to put the story first, no matter where that led us. We’d open ourselves up to all genres, all forms. We’d publish works that stayed with us in an intangible way, long after that last page is turned.

You are afraid to let anyone in, but you still leave the door open, hoping someone good will shut the door behind him and throw away the keys.

In dealing with many words and different cultures every day, I have come to realize that the essence of life can be reduced to the magic of three sentences, in the order of their strength: “I apologize”, “I love you”, “Hi”. The use and the meaning you replenish them with become the mirror of yourself, eventually of an entire humanity. (Soar)

A nation established under GodA nation that will only winif we stand together

LIBERTY! FREEDOM! DEMOCRACY!True anyhow no matter how manyLiars use those words.

It is the blight man was born for. It is Margaret you mourn for.

Songs of myselfClear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

But I have burned already down to bone. There is a fire that burns beyond the names Of sludge and filth of which this world is made. Agony sears the dark flesh of the body, And lifts me higher than the smoke, to rise Above the earth, above the sacrifice; Until my soul flares outward like a blue Blossom of gas fire dancing in mid-air: Free of the body’s work of twisted iron.

I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,icily free above the stones,above the stones and then the world.If you should dip your hand in,your wrist would ache immediately,your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burnas if the water were a transmutation of firethat feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,then briny, then surely burn your tongue.It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,drawn form the cold hard mouthof the world, derived from the rocky breastsforever, flowing and drawn, and sinceour knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

A charm invests a faceImperfectly beheld,—The lady dare not lift her veilFor fear it be dispelled.But peers beyond her mesh,And wishes, and denies,—Lest interview annul a wantThat image satisfies.

Great God, Great faith.Great faith, Great spirit.Great spirit, Great soul.Great soul, great life.Great life, great deeds.Great deeds, great blessings.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of disappointed shells that dropped behind. GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime.-- Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Just because we have birds inside is, we don't have to be cages.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall tonight,For thou must die.

Only remember: I am not the ease, but the end.I am not to blind you, but to find you.What you think is the sirens singing to lure you to your doom is only the voice of the inevitable, welcoming you after so long a wait. I was made only for you.

Danse Russe If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,-- if I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: "I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?

THE CONSCIOUS HUMANYou are not just white,but a rainbow of colors.You are not just black,but golden.You are not just a nationality,but a citizen of the world.You are not just for the right or left,but for what is right over the wrong.You are not just rich or poor,but always wealthy in the mind and heart.You are not perfect, but flawed.You are flawed, but you are just.You may just be conscious human,but you are also a magnificentreflection of God.Suzy Kassem“The Conscious Human” Poetry by Suzy Kassem

In our most vulnerable hour, it is helpful to remember our creative power.

Inconstancy of every second punishes me.The wind, the rain, the clouds, the days,I try to grasp the hours but they banish me,And I remain in the vortex of incongruity.The lone coyote shrieks,Startling my soul into wakefulness.The Cacti bloom and the Wren beckons,Deepening my mind into dreamlessness.And the moments spend time with inconstancy,increasing the ease of uneasiness.Why this daily pilgrimage of ideas?When no saint has ever ceased the day!Still yearning for some magic hour,Where nothing but permanence dwells.Alas, only this thought be the only truth,That certainty in death is constant.And so, in every second, minute, hour,our only gain is memory.Be it bitter or sweet:it is ours!Rejoice.

I am the eye that beholds... And I am the dreamer that paints the stars in the night sky... For I am the one they call artist, and you call Love.

God’s justice in the one, and his goodness in the other, is exercised for evermore, as the everlasting subjects of his reward and punishment.

A chord that becomes a melodious delusion,In polar discrepancy from blue to yellow painted,In yellow I existed, with digoxin’s deadly illusion,Like Van Gogh’s stars in a bright night untainted.

We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.

A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams.

Cold feet under a warm blanket, steam over an empty mug--rain splatters on dry window pane--open journals of closed memories... tears of laughter and joy of pain... schmaltz of diametric morning.

I am. . . .power. . I am. . . .joy . . . . .peace. . . . . I am. . weakness I am. . .undeniable . . boundless . .I am force. . truth. . submission . . .decadence. . I am . . .malleable . . .distraction. . I am absolution. . mystery. . . .I am. . . .temptation . . . . .rejuvenation . . .exaltation . . I . . .loyalty . . . .am. . ..reckless. . . .imperfect. . . .I . . . . love . . . . human . . . am. . destruction . . .rebirth . . .life. . . .I am flawed.

I will always kiss you like it is our first and last kiss. Always.

As I string, a swift rhythm is played out with my hands, a cadence known only to those who have strung tobacco. To many of the poor workers, the meter and rhythm of stringing tobacco is the only poetry they’ve ever known.

Come to the beach with meAnd watch the pelicans die,Hear their feeble screamsCalling to an empty skyWhere once they playedAnd scouted for food,Not scavenging like the gullsBut plummeting unafraidInto friendly waters.Come to the beach with meAnd watch the pelicans die,Listen to their feeble screamsCalling to an empty sky.Maybe Christ will walk byAnd save them in their final toilOr work a miracle from the shore,A courtesy of Union Oil.Come to the beach with meAnd watch the pelicans die.My God! They'll never fly again.It's worse than Normandy somehow,For there we only murdered men.

We ran as if to meet the moon.

Everybody talks, but there is no conversation.

Unless you call attentionto your presencewho will know you're there?Even a countryhas to weave and wave a flagas proof of its existence.

PRACTICE MAKES THE HARD THINGS EASY

But here we call it Spring, when a young man’s fancy turns,fitfully, lightly, to idling in the sun,to touching in the dark. And the old man's?To worms in their garden box; stepping asidea moment in a poem that will remember,fitfully, who made it and the discordand stammer, and change of heart and catch of breathit sprang from. A bending downlightly to touch the earth.

Cultivate the distance. Nurture the silence. Let it grow until your fragile heart is as far and inaccessible as his marbled emotions. Don't talk. Don't move. Sit still. If he shows up, lie. Believe your own excuses.And if he tries to charm his way back in, punch him in the face.

And now we step to the rhythm of miracles.--from The Light, That Never Dies

Through words to the meaning of thoughts with no words.

If lighthouse becomes a burning candle, flickered upon ocean's insanity.Your sailing heart there anchors to handle the obsessed breeze towards sand dune's vanity.

I have daughters and I have sons.When one of them lays a handOn my shoulder, shining fishTurn suddenly in the deep sea.

He sang softly, less with words and more with thought. She cradled his head, stitching together his fragmented heart.

I write about pain so you know you're not alone. I've felt it too. I'm releasing it... in hope that you will too.

The surge of his ardour swept through him in climatic release, filling her womb with his final, mortal sowing.