Prose Quotes - Page 6

DADDYYou do not do, you do not doAny more, black shoeIn which I have lived like a footFor thirty years, poor and white,Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.Daddy, I have had to kill you.You died before I had time―Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,Ghastly statue with one grey toeBig as a Frisco sealAnd a head in the freakish AtlanticWhen it pours bean green over blueIn the waters of beautiful Nauset.I used to pray to recover you.Ach, du.In the German tongue, in the Polish townScraped flat by the rollerOf wars, wars, wars.But the name of the town is common.My Polack friendSays there are a dozen or two.So I never could tell where youPut your foot, your root,I never could talk to you.The tongue stuck in my jaw.It stuck in a barb wire snare.Ich, ich, ich, ich,I could hardly speak.I thought every German was you.And the language obsceneAn engine, an engineChuffing me off like a Jew.A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.I began to talk like a Jew.I think I may well be a Jew.The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of ViennaAre not very pure or true.With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luckAnd my Taroc pack and my Taroc packI may be a bit of a Jew.I have always been scared of you,With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.And your neat mustacheAnd your Aryan eye, bright blue.Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You―Not God but a swastikaSo black no sky could squeak through.Every woman adores a Fascist,The boot in the face, the bruteBrute heart of a brute like you.You stand at the blackboard, daddy,In the picture I have of you,A cleft in your chin instead of your footBut no less a devil for that, no notAnd less the black man whoBit my pretty red heart in two.I was ten when they buried you.At twenty I tried to dieAnd get back, back, back to you.I thought even the bones would do.But they pulled me out of the sack,And they stuck me together with glue.And then I knew what to do.I made a model of you,A man in black with a Meinkampf lookAnd a love of the rack and the screw.And I said I do, I do.So daddy, I’m finally through.The black telephone’s off at the root,The voices just can’t worm through.If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two―The vampire who said he was youAnd drank my blood for a year,Seven years, if you want to know.Daddy, you can lie back now.There’s a stake in your fat black heartAnd the villagers never like you.They are dancing and stamping on you.They always knew it was you.Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

stay curious and stay the brave, strong, unrelenting soldier of love that you are.

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.

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

Money has the power to get, all that you want.Money has the power to make you forget, all that you want.

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

The Grim Reaper isn't grim at all; he's a life-saver. He isn't grim because he isn't anything. . . . he is nothing. And nothing is a hell of a lot better than anything. So long, boys.

you need to be careful with me.i fall in loveand i fall in love forever.

Chainschains that hold me to the groundchains that keep me solidly boundchains that tether my heart to youchains that only one truth...

see the whole stretched out universe twinkles in its little hopelessness and the soul needs insignificance just like our little stars do.

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

you'd take one look at me and whole pieces of the earth would break off and fall away finally leaving me alone with you.

There are very few friends that will lie down with you on empty streets in the middle of the night, without a word. No questions, no asking why, just quietly lay there with you, observing the stars, until you're ready to get back up on your feet again and walk the last bit home, softly holding your hand as a quiet way of saying “I'm here”.It was a beautiful night.

Remember, life is a bit tough most of the time.Also remember, if it was easy it would be boring.

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.

The snow was too light to stay, the ground too warm to keep it. And the strange spring snow fell only in that golden moment of dawn, the turning of the page between night and day.

The Waterfall and the Sea""Her love and passion are a waterfall, fed from the wellspring of her heart,gently tumbling into a pool, preparing herself to share her gifts.His passion and love are like the sea, deep and wide, waiting mysteriously,Patiently he awaits her, calling out through time and spaceShe hears his call, her pool overflowing.Her love and passion gushing over her banks she rushes toward himWinding and twisting she finds her way, destined to reach his shoresHe awaits her arrival as she opens her delta and his tide comes inTheir waters mingle every molecule of her river with his seaForever mixing and sharing their passion and love in that place betweenThe Waterfall and the Sea

I can't allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.

Am I making something worth while?I’m not sure.I write and I sing and I hear words from time to time about my life and choices making ways, into other lives, other hearts,but am I making something worth while?I’m not sure.There was a boy last night who I never spoke to because I was too drunk and still shy, but mostly lonely, and I couldn’t find anything lightly to say,so I simply walked awaybut still wondered what he did with his lifebecause he didn’t even speak to meor look at mebut still made me wonder who he wasand I walked away askingAm I making something worth while?I am not sure.I am a complicated person with a simple lifeand I am the reason for everything that ever happened to me.

You yearn to stay in this in-between place, where the beauty of the times you have freshly bade farewell to is still alive and vivid in your mind – almost real – and the reality of your new circumstances has yet to fully sink in. You listen to the familiar melodies that had accompanied you on your journey, and allow the music to evoke landscapes and scenes in your mind. The songs caress your sub-consciousness and fill your being with an airy joy. You are both here and elsewhere. Or perhaps you are everywhere and nowhere.

...unquestioning automatonsblindly marching to the beat -an eerie crunching soundhoards of shuffling feet...(from silent moments)

i am not a jealous person,but when i am with you,the thought of someone elsepulling your attention away from mekills me a little insideeach time.

it is hard not to count the hoursi have left with you.it is hard to be here now--knowing everything between uswill come to an end.

Git'er DoneThey beat their swords upon their shieldsTo no beast or man would they yield

i let you love me.i let you take care of me.i let you do things to meno one was allowed to do before.

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.

Of all the art forms, poetry is the most economical. It is the one which is the most secret, which requires the least physical labor, the least material, and the one which can be done between shifts, in the hospital pantry, on the subway, and on scraps of surplus paper. Over the last few years, writing a novel on tight finances, I came to appreciate the enormous differences in the material demands between poetry and prose. As we reclaim our literature, poetry has been the major voice of poor, working class, and Colored women. A room of one's own may be a necessity for writing prose, but so are reams of paper, a typewriter, and plenty of time.

Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end.

I can't be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere of gloom and eucalyptus.

if god is real, she put all of herself into this girl. she vowed to unleash a woman so violently herself, the sky would collapse every time she came to orgasm.

Yet you stand, too ashamed to run, too fearful to embrace. God I see so much ofwhat I love in that face.

… and now and then we could look up and give each other a thought, because I think he could have beautiful thoughts,and we could just let each other be less lonely in our loneliness.

In general, I would think that at present prose writers are much in advance of the poets. In the old days, I read more poetry than prose, but now it is in prose where you find things being put together well, where there is great ambition, and equal talent. Poets have gotten so careless, it is a disgrace. You can’t pick up a page. All the words slide off.

I gripped against her like she was metal and I was all full of lightning, charged up and jagged and of that moment alone.

At Times I Am A Flower...at times I am a flower ~singularly defined ...

there is something magical and addicting about going somewhere, being alone, and finding yourself in parts of the world you never knew existed, finding parts of yourself you never knew you would find.

Nowhere hidden has ever turned away a goodheart guest.

we talk of plans that are going to happen.we talk of the future, as if we know we will last.there is a sort of comfort in that.

He lifted his arm that had been resting on her shoulders and gazed at the words she had written on his hand. He had been branded as cattle are branded to show whom they belong to. The cold mountain air stung his lips. She was driving too fast on this road that had once been a forest. Early humans had lived in it. They studied fire and the movement of the sun. They read the clouds and the moon and tried to understand the human mind His father had tried to melt him into a Polish forest when he was five years old. He knew he must leave no trace or trail of his existence because he must never find his way home. That was what his father had told him. You cannot come home. This was not something possible to know but he had to know it all the same

Feelings and emotionran through my veinslike a hurricane.And that's when everythingbegan to look like poetry.—You look like poetry

Take a shower. Wash away every trace of yesterday. Of smells. Of weary skin. Get dressed. Make coffee, windows open, the sun shining through. Hold the cup with two hands and notice that you feel the feeling of warmth. 
 You still feel warmth.
Now sit down and get to work. Keep your mind sharp, head on, eyes on the page and if small thoughts of worries fight their ways into your consciousness: threw them off like fires in the night and keep your eyes on the track. Nothing but the task in front of you. Get off your chair in the middle of the day. Put on your shoes and take a long walk on open streets around people. Notice how they’re all walking, in a hurry, or slowly. Smiling, laughing, or eyes straight forward, hurried to get to wherever they’re going. And notice how you’re just one of them. Not more, not less. Find comfort in the way you’re just one in the crowd. Your worries: no more, no less.Go back home. Take the long way just to not pass the liquor store. Don’t buy the cigarettes. Go straight home. Take off your shoes. Wash your hands. Your face. Notice the silence. Notice your heart. It’s still beating. Still fighting. Now get back to work.
Work with your mind sharp and eyes focused and if any thoughts of worries or hate or sadness creep their ways around, shake them off like a runner in the night for you own your mind, and you need to tame it. Focus. Keep it sharp on track, nothing but the task in front of you.Work until your eyes are tired and head is heavy, and keep working even after that. Then take a shower, wash off the day. Drink a glass of water. Make the room dark. Lie down and close your eyes.
Notice the silence. Notice your heart. Still beating. Still fighting. You made it, after all. You made it, another day. And you can make it one more. 
You’re doing just fine.
You’re doing fine.I’m doing just fine.

i over love.i under love.i am either a floodor i am nothing.

A Coy Aversion...a fluttertoo shyto be seen...

I never expected to fall in love. I never expected to float or fall a thousand feet and create the crevice I called my life. But the thing with crevices, there’s always a top and always a bottom. And the feeling of appreciation when you look from the top and understand how fast it can all come crashing down — it’s more than beautiful and more than words could ever explain.

hold company with yourself so sacredthat even when you are alone,you are whole.

woman-another word for beginning.another word for revolution.another word for healing.another word for being.another word for me.

It's been the longest timeSince I've been in this place,Where I spend my whole dayHoping I'll see your face.Then I script things to say,And maybe what you'd say back.You don't know it yet,But, girl, it's a factThat I can see us Staying up late,Talking all night,But I guess I'll have to wait.'Cause it's brand-new,Yeah, I know we just met. I want to be there with you, But not just yet.Girl, you've got that look,Like you're hard to impress.So I'm bumbling with words,'Cause my mind is a mess.You were out of the blueAnd you caught me by surprise,With a slight smile, that long stare,And a challenge in your eyesI could feel all thisIn that single look,Like you could see my soul.You could read me like a book,And I think it's something.Though I know we just met,I'm gonna get there with you.You just don't know it ... yet.

you're going to love your way out of this.out of the hurt.out of the pain.you're going to love your way out of itand be free.

Tiny GigglesSilly giggles of laughterI store upon a shelfI give some to otherI save some for myselfI am rich beyond all measureThough not with worldly wealthI store up these treasuresFor my heart and soulful health.

In general, dividing literature into prose and poetry began with the appearance of prose, for only in prose could such a division be expressed. By its nature, by its essence, art is hierarchical, automatically, and in this hierarchy, poetry stands above prose. If only because poetry is older. Poetry really is a very strange thing, because it belongs to a troglodyte as well as to a snob. It can be produced in the Stone Age and in the most modern salon, whereas prose requires a developed society, a developed structure, certain established classes, if you like. Here you could start reasoning like a Marxist without even being wrong. The poet works from the voice, from the sound. For him, content is not as important as is ordinarily believed. For a poet, there is almost no difference between phonetics and semantics. Therefore, only very rarely does the poet give any thought to who in fact comprises his audience. That is, he does so much more rarely than the prose writer.

we get brave.we move.we believe.we keep going.

I will find comfort in the rhythm of the sea.

Don’t look up to people, don’t be someone’s following.Now a days everything you see is just a lie,Instead be the person you want to follow.

Lollypop...the passion contained merely kissesplaced upon lips, neck and cheekthese young lovers of the castleof which our fairytale speaks...

I just wish you could see my demons for what they are, and lay here beside me on the floor. No words. Just your presence.