Poetry Quotes - Page 99

Thoughts as warm as a silky summer rain, flowing over the edge of my soul's gentle.not tides returning them along the shoreline to laughing gulls.

I am made of poetry and other things that people don't really care about at all.

Stars open among the lilies.Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?This is the silence of astounded souls.

Whenever you keep score in love, you lose.

She had blue skin. And so did he. He kept it hid, And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through, Then passed right by - And never knew.

Love left us long back,we just got better.You at pretending,Me at hiding.

At least if you don’t ask,I don’t have to lie.I’ve spent most of the pastfew months asleep on the bathroom floor;sick of keeping everything in,too tired to let it out.“Home” is such an empty word.I’m not sure why it feltwhole coming from your mouth.I’m not sure why I feltwhole. We both know I’m just an ideato carve into sheetrockwith swollen fists;leaving worn out holes thatyour heart never fit.I try not to wake up,but my body is used to(everyone leaving)routines.

i am soft again.there is water and it surrounds me.there is feeling and i can feel it.i am awake and aliveand swollen and heavy with love.i am changingand i am loving change.

Death stoops over me.I'm a problem in chess. Hehas the solution.

Water, water, everywhere,And all the boards did shrink;Water, water, everywhere,Nor any drop to drink.

Poetry is not for poets, poetry lovers or perceived poetic persons only. Poetry is in yourself, others and everything of nature and man-made.Poetry may not be a solution, yet it can reveal or ease challenges faced.Poetry is capable of affecting any heart.

Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us,Snow-hushed and heartless.

In all ages woman has been the source of all that is pure, unselfish, and heroic in the spirit and life of man.....poetry and fiction are based upon woman's love, and the movements of history are mainly due to the sentiments or ambitions she has inspired......there is no aspiration which any man here to-night entertains, no achievement he seeks to accomplish, no great and honorable ambition he desires to gratify, which is not directly related to either or both a mother or a wife. From the hearth-stone around which linger the recollections of our mother, from the fireside where our wife awaits us, come all the purity, all the hope, and all the courage with which we fight the battle of life. The man who is not thus inspired, who labors not so much to secure the applause of the world as the solid and more precious approval of his home, accomplishes little of good for others or of honor for himself. I close with the hope that each of us may always have near us: 'A perfect woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfort, and command,And yet a spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel light.

How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.So you must not be frightened if a sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever seen; if a restiveness, like light and cloudshadows, passes over your hands and over all you do. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall. Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any miseries, or any depressions? For after all, you do not know what work these conditions are doing inside you.

Harold's Bow and FoodBowl bowl bowl bowlFood food food foodThe miracle of the heavenly restaurantI mouth thisgreat dark sad eveningSuddenly they come for me in a limousineHow could I have believed I was vanquishedI never lay slain Iam the victor this parade is for meNow they have led me to the doors of GodLong ago and foreverI was in this placeon the other side of eatingwhere I am full and the emptybowl is beautiful-- from Unleashed: Poems by Writers' Dogs

I always thought time was the most valuable currency, but I realized the people we spent our time on and loved us back, that love held even more meaning to me.

Not words. nor laughter. but rather someonewho will fall in lovewith your silence.

Painted desert, ocean of colorsun's worshiper, moon's loverpicture of a coyote's voicesandbox of angels, another toy.

She got inside me with her story. I could feel her flowing in me and far, faraway I related in parallel. Her smile was a reflection of my own brokenness. It defined buried feelings that I could never ignore.

My heart's been broken in a thousand pieces I've lived and died a thousand times And in each of those lifetimes With all of those pieces I chose you…A million times.

i sometimes think i'm too in love with alone.who could i love more than this peace?

This gesture is one of the motifs of modernity's turn against the principle of imitating nature, that is to say, imitating predefined morphological expectations. It is still capable of perceiving message-totalities and autonomous thing-signals when no morphologically intact figures are left - indeed, precisely then. The sense for perfection withdraws from the forms of nature - probably because nature itself is in the process of losing its ontological authority. The popularization of photography also increasingly devalues the standard views of things. As the first edition of the visible, nature comes into discredit. It can no longer assert its authority as the sender of binding messages - for reasons that ultimately come from its disenchantment through being scientifically explored and technically outdone. After this shift, 'being perfect' takes on an altered meaning: it means having something to say that is more meaningful than the chatter of conventional totalities. Now the torsos and their ilk have their turn: the hour of those forms that do not remind us of anything has come. Fragments, cripples and hybrids formulate something that cannot be conveyed by the common whole forms and happy integrities; intensity beats standard perfection.

My husband says spring will be early.He says this every year,And every year I disagree.He needs me, the dark side of the planetary equation.Together we make the equinox.

The unity in diversity lies only in your heart.

It is beautiful to express love and even more beautiful to feel it.

we are burning like a chicken wing left on the grill of an outdoor barbecuewe are unwanted and burning we are burning and unwanted we arean unwantedburningas we sizzle and fryto the bonethe coals of Dante's 'Inferno' spit and sputter beneathus andabove the sky is an open hand andthe words of wise men are uselessit's not a nice world, a nice world it's not ...

She's just a girl who dreams too deeply for this world.

The tongues of hell are dull.

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all.

the flames are silent,Peace is violent,Tears are frozen’cause massacre was chosen.~~ 26/11– Mumbai terror attack memories

words are a border collie’s worst nightmare.

..."vers libre," (free verse) or nine-tenths of it, is not a new metre any more than sleeping in a ditch is a new school of architecture.

my love is a winter’s mistgently dissolvingthrough the windowat the nape of your neck.

An extreme fearfulness moves through all your body, and your mind is troubled more.

Their ghosts are gagged, their books are library flotsam,Some of their names - not all - we learnt in schoolBut, life being short, we rarely read their poems,Mere source-books now to point or except a rule,While those opinions which rank them high are basedOn a wish to be different or on lack of taste.

She who reconciles the ill-matched threadsOf her life, and weaves them gratefullyInto a single cloth – It’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hallAnd clears it for a different celebration.

I can’t pray or weigh my words right; doomsday is here my friend, but you’re immune. We sufferfor you. I’m weaving crowns of sonnets, dreads;a souvenir so you’ll never forget your friends.

I heard of a manwho says words so beautifullythat if he only speaks their namewomen give themselves to him.If I am dumb beside your bodywhile silence blossoms like tumors on our lipsit is because I hear a man climb stairsand clear his throat outside our door.

you will never catch up.Walk around feeling like a leafknow you could tumble at any second.Then decide what to do with your time.--The Art of Disappearing

Here is a greedy man who keeps to himselfThe beautiful pears ripe in his garden.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Infectious smile has infected tears The laughter strikes with spears I am not dear and they are not sincere Feeling fear I must perform For when I stop the stage is gone

You own me with whispers like poetry.Your mouth is a melody I memorize.

Don’t despair nowyou fell in love with the maskand not what was behindit touched the chords inside your heartand made it beatand now that you have seen behind itdon’t despair

What do they think has happened, the old fools,To make them like this? Do they somehow supposeIt's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't rememberWho called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,They could alter things back to when they danced all night,Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?Or do they fancy there's really been no change,And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,Or sat through days of thin continuous dreamingWatching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange;tttWhy aren't they screaming?

In past wars only homes burnt, but this timeDon't be surprised if even loneliness ignites.In past wars only bodys burnt, but this timeDon't be surprised if even shadows ignite.

I do think that poetry is important though, if you don’t strive at it, if you don’t fill it full of stars and falseness.

Poetry Saved Me

When When it’s over, it’s over, and we don’t know any of us, what happens then.So I try not to miss anything.I think, in my whole life, I have never missed The full moonor the slipper of its coming back.Or, a kiss.Well, yes, especially a kiss.

…The love of his youthAppeared as in a dreamAnd this ageing loverWent mad with love.The youth robbed him ofReason and his chastity.In pursuit of his Beloved, mad, deranged,He was from kith and kin estranged.The fire of the rose’s cheekBurnt the nightingale’s heart;The laughing flameTormented the devoted moth…

The reason for the existence of the perfection conjured up in these fourteen lines is that it possesses ... the authorization to form a message that appeals from within itself. This power of appeal is exquisitely evident in the object evoked here. The perfect thing is that which articulates an entire principle of being. The poem has to perform no more and no less than to perceive the principle of being in the thing and adapt it to its own existence - with the aim of becoming a construct with an equal power to convey a message.

I stepped from Plank to PlankSo slow and cautiouslyThe Stars about my Head I felt,About my Feet the Sea.I knew not but the nextWould be my final inch —This gave me that precarious GaitSome call Experience.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

Justice is paramount. The new judgement is the justice of the hidden time.

O Lord that bear rule, who may know these things, but he that had not his dwelling with men?

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me, your poetry.

in the afterglowof an evening raini lay downin the grass and think of youmy body acheslike an after-kissbreaking in soft firesand wildflowersmy dear, i will always bethis tender for you.

The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth,--The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity

You are only as free as you think you are and freedom will always be as real as you believe it to be.

Oh, I know that I'll never be perfectI'm just alive