Poets Quotes - Page 8

Glorious sex that poets write about and that angels blow their trumpets over absolutely requires the participants to be fully engaged and fully witnessing the entire event!

poets. have the toughest jobin the universe-of turning silenceinto eloquence.

the woman is rain,and when she falls,she is a monsoon.to love her is to drown.

Each young person is a poet of sorts, trying to sort out the poetics of their inner life and its relation to the great world around it. Each elder is a philosopher of sorts, trying to sort out the meanings and gleanings of a life as well as the necessary implications of the presence of death.

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

Any society that produces twice as many lawyers as it does poets and preachers is doomed.

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

Great poets are great copy editors.

It may be enough, however, to have it said that we survive in exact relationship to the dedication of our poets (include preachers, musicians, and blues singers).

You are alone,So alone,You speak back to silence.People call it loneliness,You call it solitude,Different words,Meaning the same pain.

Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land wanting to fly in the air.

Carpe diem.Seize the day, boys.Make your lives extraordinary

A poet can imagine an iceberg singing a melancholic song while the world leaders find it difficult to imagine proper solution to global warming.

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.

Everybody talks, but there is no conversation.

Through words to the meaning of thoughts with no words.

I am Stephanie Lahart! An intelligent, empowered, and confident Black Queen. Purposely Fearless!

Poets make the best topographers.

To hear never-heard sounds, To see never-seen colors and shapes, To try to understand the imperceptible Power pervading the world; To fly and find pure ethereal substances That are not of matter But of that invisible soul pervading reality. To hear another soul and to whisper to another soul; To be a lantern in the darkness Or an umbrella in a stormy day; To feel much more than know. To be the eyes of an eagle, slope of a mountain; To be a wave understanding the influence of the moon; To be a tree and read the memory of the leaves; To be an insignificant pedestrian on the streets Of crazy cities watching, watching, and watching. To be a smile on the face of a woman And shine in her memory As a moment saved without planning.

i feel everything.i do not know how to un-feeland to not feelis to stop the sun.

In the lie of truth lies the truth.

The poet's job is to put into words those feelings we all have that are so deep, so important, and yet so difficult to name, to tell the truth in such a beautiful way, that people cannot live without it.

On a small table beside his chair were other haphazardly stacked volumes by such poets as Emerson, Whitman, and Wallace Stevens, a dangerous crew to let into your head.

Artistes breathe and dream creativity!

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.

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

A Poet never denies creativity entrance.

love is myself in the mirror.i will see love every time.

Infinity is the end. End without infinity is but a new beginning.

Love me...with all the abandonof a sudden wild rain.

I'd rather die fighting over great poets than over gods.

your smile.is the ultimategolden dream.all the poemsin the worldare waking up from.

From whichever side I start, I think I am in an old place where others have been before me.

A pear should come to the table popped with juice,Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On termsLike these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.

On the last day of the worldI would want to plant a tree

Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.

We like to admit to only that which already glows, although it is nobler to support brightness before it glows, not afterwards.

He did not profess to anybody how to reach others without professing.

depth and substance.the two most exquisite qualities. be it in a poemor a person.

When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds – like those horses that are equally good for saddle and carriage, the worst kind, that can neither jump a ditch nor pull a plow.

One could say that artists are people who think naturally in highly patterned ways.

every choice i have ever made after you existedhas been dependent on exactlyhow close i can have you next to meand how long i can get you to stay.

i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.

It is clear enough that not every something can be elevated to the rank of a thing - otherwise everything and everyone would be speaking once more, and the chatter would spread from humans to things. Rilke privileges two categories of 'entities' [Seienden), to express it in the papery diction of philosophy, that are eligible for the lofty task of acting as message-things - artifices and living creatures - with the latter gaining their particular quality from the former, as if animals were being's highest works of art before humans. Inherent to both is a message energy that does not activate itself, but requires the poet as a decoder and messenger.

My girl was mad and I loved her. Upon a night, she read my poetry; and kissing me madly she cried, ‘You are a genius, my love!’ To which I replied, ‘My girl,’ whispering, ‘Every doctor in this land with a prescription pad is more of a genius than I.

He wanders, like a day-appearing dream,Through the dim wildernesses of the mind; Through desert woods and tracts, which seem Like ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined.

A poet has to be a bit childlike at heart, and in that sense all the romantic stereotypes about poets being "eternal children", etc, are all accurate. They believe, whatever they may say, that art and words can change the world.

I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry that is prose - words in their best order poetry - the best words in their best order.

Poets aren't very useful because they aren't consumeful or very produceful.

wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.

We are told that in translation there is no such thing as equivalence. Many times the translator reaches a fork in the translating road where they must make a choice in the interpretation of a word. And each time they make one of these choices, they are taken further from the truth. But what we aren’t told is that this isn’t a shortcoming of translation; it’s a shortcoming of language itself. As soon as we try to put reality into words, we limit it. Words are not reality, they are the cause of reality, and thus reality is always more. Writers aren't alchemists who transmute words into the aurous essence of the human experience. No, they are glassmakers. They create a work of art that enables us to see inside to help us understand. And if they are really good, we can see our own reflections staring back at us.

Poetry contains few words but tells much. Its beauty is that by being condensed it is rich in meaning and open to various interpretations. Unlike prose, there is no boundary to poetry. There is nothing concrete or black and white. Poetry is mutable; it is transformative. Poetry is the alchemy of hearts. And what cannot be said in prose can sometimes be only said through poetry.

Either you will be you or you will not be at all.

Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.

Sunbathe from within.

What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.

What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.... And people flock around the poet and say: 'Sing again soon' - that is, 'May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.

My sudden, unforeseen capitulation had knocked me backward, and I had nothing to hold on to. My internal weather was eerily calm, as if in a tornado's aftermath, birdsong, sunshine, supersaturated colors, wreckage all around, and myself, dazed and limping.

you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.