Best 8 184 of Poetry quotes - MyQuotes
She's always looking for poetry and passion and sensitivity, the whole Romantic kitchen. I live on a rather simpler diet.' 'Prose and pudding?' 'I don't expect attractive men necessarily to have attractive souls.
she's got oceans tucked away in her hair poems swim under her skin.
All of my life God has allowed me to share prospectives with people who are different. You cannot lead people whose prospective you are not willing to understand.
Poetry has never been a favorite American pastime.
You must never settle for someone who is not willing to swim in your tormented seas -You are worthy of more than they are willing to give
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example,'The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight searches for her as though to go to her. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before. Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.
Arise my soul, arise to lighter ways, So cast aside dark shadows haunting thee; O view the orbs and spheres of brighter days, Lost fragments fraught with broken ecstasy.
Creator of all Things, to sing: At the Potter's House, you see, we are His Pottery...Because God writes (in) Love, and speaks (in) 'Poetree': The Nature of Things, the King of Kings, oh Kingdom of the Holy, we sing!
I do not have any trust fund, I have always trusted God for all my funds.
Science makes discoveries when it admits to not knowing, poetry endures if it looks hard at real things. Nature writing, if such a thing exists, lives in this territory where science and poetry might meet. It must be made of both; it needs truth and beauty.
The same things that make you unique in this world, make you a target for the archers consumed by fear and jealousy.
Is this where the light faded out forever? Where the cat was finally killed by caught tongue? Where hand no longer wandered over curious texture? Where words no longer moved past lips but died in a quiver?
Love is a game of tic-tac-toe, constantly waiting for the next x or o.
Stanley Victor Paskavich
There's two ways to become a famous Poet, find that one person that knows somebody, that knows somebody, that knows somebody. Or die trying
But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
In trials of ir'n and silver fain “The dead will rise and walk again “The blesséd few that touch the light “Will aid the war against the night. “But one by one they all will die “Without a cause to rule them by “As Darkness spreads across the land “He'll wield the oceans in his hand. “Five warriors will oppose his reign “And overthrow the Shadow Thane “They come from sides both dark and light “The realm the mortals call “twilight.” “A magus crowned with boughs of fire “Will rise like Phoenix from his pyre “A beast of shadows touched with sight “Will claim a Dark One as her knight “The next, a prophet doomed to fail “Will find her powers to avail “The final: one mere mortal man “Who bears the mark upon his hand “The circle closes round these few “Made sacred by the bonds they hew “But if one fails then so shall all “Bring death to those of Evenfall.
Writing is a lifelong commitment that taxes every scribble, and reimburses only at the tombstone. (A.W. Ryleigh) Every dream, every thought, every moment of preoccupation....write it. (A.W. Ryleigh) Down deep beneath dark water, Sliding through the slippery abyss The giant dreams not of slaughter Nor sun's rays, nor wind's kiss (Cupid is Drunk- A.W. Ryleigh Something dismal was on the horizon. The people in the village had been sensing it, predicting something dark—something threatening. (PRETA, A.W. Ryleigh)
It's made of poetry and art and lost hearts enhanced in magic It's the kingdom of love, where free spirits find their resilience It's the dream catcher of lost passion and deep silence It's the torso where rebel souls find their homeland It's the beginning of a dream and the end of another It's what keeps you up in the night, when you're breathing dreams It's that madness of artists caught in the wind It's the night on a full moon drown between chimeras It's you making love to me, under the blessings of Seine..." (fragment from "Paris", chapter Hope)
the time will come, my dear when I will hold you close and all will be right again in the world.
George Jean Nathan
A poet, any real poet, is simply an alchemist who transmutes his cynicism regarding human beings into an optimism regarding the moon, the stars, the heavens, and the flowers, to say nothing of the spring, love, and dogs.
These days, if you happen to be a poet you have to sing your words to get your ideas out.
Most of the books of erotic poetry available today are either too old or are big anthologies covering the same poets and poems. There is a lack of new and original work. Most of us have read something from Ovid, Sappho, Shakespeare, the ancient Greeks, the Romans, or from the Kama Sutra. But love is a theme that should be celebrated with freshness.
Moon is a superstar to a neon light Both are in doubt of their lifeless plight One envies the sun, the other one’s scared But to face the dark they’re always prepared
The first inkling of this notion had come to him the Christmas before, at his daughter's place in Vermont. On Christmas Eve, as indifferent evening took hold in the blue squares of the windows, he sat alone in the crepuscular kitchen, imbued with a profound sense of the identity of winter and twilight, of twilight and time, of time and memory, of his childhood and that church which on this night waited to celebrate the second greatest of its feasts. For a moment or an hour as he sat, become one with the blue of the snow and the silence, a congruity of star, cradle, winter, sacrament, self, it was as though he listened to a voice that had long been trying to catch his attention, to tell him, Yes, this was the subject long withheld from him, which he now knew, and must eventually act on. He had managed, though, to avoid it. He only brought it out now to please his editor, at the same time aware that it wasn't what she had in mind at all. But he couldn't do better; he had really only the one subject, if subject was the word for it, this idea of a notion or a holy thing growing clear in the stream of time, being made manifest in unexpected ways to an assortment of people: the revelation itself wasn't important, it could be anything, almost. Beyond that he had only one interest, the seasons, which he could describe endlessly and with all the passion of a country-bred boy grown old in the city. He was beginning to doubt (he said) whether these were sufficient to make any more novels out of, though he knew that writers of genius had made great ones out of less. He supposed really (he didn't say) that he wasn't a novelist at all, but a failed poet, like a failed priest, one who had perceived that in fact he had no vocation, had renounced his vows, and yet had found nothing at all else in the world worth doing when measured by the calling he didn't have, and went on through life fatally attracted to whatever of the sacerdotal he could find or invent in whatever occupation he fell into, plumbing or psychiatry or tending bar. ("Novelty")
Painting gives the object itself; poetry what it implies. Painting embodies what a thing contains in itself; poetry suggests what exists out of it, in any manner connected with it.
I have no heart? Perhaps I have not; / But then you're mad to take offense / That I don't give you what I have not got; / Use your own common sense.
Post-structuralism is a reaction to structuralism and works against seeing language as a stable, closed system. It is a shift from seeing the poem or novel as a closed entity, equipped with definite meanings which it is the critic's task to decipher, to seeing literature as irreducibly plural, an endless play of signifiers which can never be finally nailed down to a single center, essence, or meaning. Jan Rybicki, 2003
Helvy Tiana Rosa
Menemukanmu (lagi) tersemat di dada puisi.
But I have tamed myself I have stomped on the throat of my own song
Robert M Drake
Thing were falling apart. We just could not slow down. We were evolving into something greater, perhaps too much for our own good. And one thing always remained as I moved on. I saved a little bit of love just in case you would ever return home.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, When Soft Voices Die Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
Lark’s Song That child who from Diana’s thought is born A huntress swift, who doth the world adorn With strength and passion worthy of the Green May wax, and one day rise to be a queen. That child who in the eye of Phoebus grows Of visage fair, that none would dare oppose May in her hand hold light and glory too, And to the Light hold sternly staunch and true. That child who with the face of Venus smiles, Will bear a heart of mischief and of wiles, And may in time love’s faithful bonds fulfil While bending lesser hearts unto her will. That child who with Athena’s grace doth move May to all eyes her worldly wisdom prove And make right wise and fulsome use thereof To measure all who seek to win her love. That child who with grim Circe’s tongue foretells Enmeshing faithful hearts within her spells By dint of sly mendacity and guile, All innocence and virtue may defile. That child who by her cunning doth connive May by fair Tyche’s fortune wax and thrive And come in time to sit upon a throne; Or fail and fall, forsaken and alone. That child may choose to hark to glory’s call And shine in splendour, loved by one and all; Or cleave to darkness, hated and reviled: Chance crafts the fate of every fate-touched child.
I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn’t even recognise me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrow for I am not a poem. I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspired but empty and weary from drinking too much at all times and I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speak for I don’t speak much at all and my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too much or not at all and never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am not a poem but an elegy at my best but unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there’s only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I’m pretty fine with that, but others are not.
Sometimes she’s the gentle rain caressing you softly. Sometimes she’s the hurricane loving you madly.
O lead me onward to the loneliest shade, The darkest place that quiet ever made, Where kingcups grow most beauteous to behold And shut up green and open into gold.
What we call life is only talk of nature.
Madame De Stael
We always cut our poetical theories to suit our talent.
The Uses Of Sorrow (In my sleep I dreamed this poem) Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.
A poem is never finished; it is only abandoned.
Tyler Knott Gregson
There is no difference: Love is love and love is love. We are all the same.
Stop blaming people for not helping you. No matter how your teacher teaches you to recite a poem, you can’t wear her smiling face to the platform. You’ve got to put that smile on your own face.
Poetry is fact given over to imagery.
Only poetry can address grief.
My uncle read me Omar Khayyam. In Arabic. Not Turkish or even English. I tried so hard to understand it. I would ask him what it all meant but he always said the pleasure was in the finding out... the discovery. He said you can keep some poems by you your whole life and they will only reveal parts of themselves to you when you are ready to hear them. (Ottmar)
we divulge the secrets that draw us closer to the hearts of others and lock away the ones that would soil us entirely
The effect Of this moment Lasted forever And still stands; It’s in my heart; It’s in my mind; Like a wonder
We have conversations most nights, Sylvia Plath and me. On these cold wintry nights with our coffee mugs in hand, we talk for hours and hours, Sylvia Plath and me!
If There Be Sorrow If there be sorrow let it be for things undone undreamed unrealized unattained to these add one: Love withheld ... restrained
I got so strongly addicted to love that I may not be able to breath without it. I fall so fondly in love with poetry that I read it in my dreams often and even unknowingly.
It is interesting that a guy like W.E.B. Du Bois, who actually did very little, I should imagine, with his hands, wrote about "I am the smoke king." Without the labor, both free and slave, of African Americans this country would still be a wilderness.