Best 8 184 of Poetry quotes - MyQuotes
Music is not my life. My life is music.
Empty, I echo to the least footfall
Do you love me?” When I struggle to love myself? “Do you love me?” When I ask you to leave? “Do you love me?” In the moments When I struggle to breathe? “Do you love me?” In those days When I seem to hurt you the most? “Do you love me?” When I feel like a burden? When I act a little weird? When I constantly question you and On the nights, When I just leave without answering?
To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honor
The arts that have escaped [uniformity] best are the arts in which the public take no interest. Poetry is an instance of what I mean. We have been able to have fine poetry in England because the public do not read it, and consequently do not influence it.
but this also is part of my charm. A maudlin nostalgia that comes on like terrible thoughts about death.
Once upon a time I fell in love Lost myself And find another one.
That day and night, the bleeding and the screaming, had knocked something askew for Esme, like a picture swinging crooked on a wall. She loved the life she lived with her mother. It was beautiful. It was, she sometimes thought, a sweet emulation of the fairy tales they cherished in their lovely, gold-edged books. They sewed their own clothes from bolts of velvet and silk, ate all their meals as picnics, indoors or out, and danced on the rooftop, cutting passageways through the fog with their bodies. They embroidered tapestries of their own design, wove endless melodies on their violins, charted the course of the moon each month, and went to the theater and the ballet as often as they liked--every night last week to see Swan Lake again and again. Esme herself could dance like a faerie, climb trees like a squirrel, and sit so still in the park that birds would come to perch on her. Her mother had taught her all that, and for years it had been enough. But she wasn't a little girl anymore, and she had begun to catch hints and glints of another world outside her pretty little life, one filled with spice and poetry and strangers.
Onwetend van dit alles maakte ik eind vorige eeuw mijn entree in dit discours door aan een tijdschrift te vertellen dat poëzie volgens mij entertainment is. Als iemand dat platvloers vindt, voegde ik er behulpzaam aan toe, had hij volgens mij een te lage dunk van entertainment.
May, and after a rainy spring We walk streets gallant with rhododendrons.
That old man over there Is selling trinkets made of stones That old woman the entire world In a map without any hole!
Yet gold all is not, that doth gold seem, Nor all good knights, that shake well spear and shield: The worth of all men by their end esteem, And then praise, or due reproach them yield.
Among both the learned and the not so learned it is accepted that poetry can be the language of the emotions; what does not gain such ready acceptance is that poetry is a living language whose syllables fall naturally into verse. And yet both these effects may be illustrated simultaneously by the easy experiment of dropping a weight on your toe. Any really prolonged and heartfelt profanity may lack originality but its imagery is elaborately fantastic; and it invariably scans.
repeat after me: you owe no one your forgiveness. - except maybe yourself.
unrequited love is like kneeling on uncooked rice and waiting for the boiling water of his kisses to soften the pain but he never comes.
No orchard's the worse for the wintriest storm; But one thing about it, it mustn't get warm. "How often already you've had to be told, Keep cold, young orchard. Good-bye and keep cold. Dread fifty above more than fifty below." I have to be gone for a season or so.
Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos, el que lo perdiò todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.
We let our lives mix with our dreams like two coloured paints, until we didn't know which is what and we didn't care.
There must be something that God knows about fear that we don't know. I am sure He knows that when you are in a state of fear, you can't fix anything. When we are in a state of fear we can't talk about anything reasonable and we can't solve anything. That is the problem because the media throws all lies on us to create fear and we fall for it....Number one Satan's strategy of getting some people trapped.
The world's supply of heartache is secure. There's love and hate and mayhem everywhere.
How like a winter hath my absence been From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere!
we looked at each other like we were the sun and the moon locked in a gravitational war, bound to cross and bound to break apart.
Giovannie De Sadeleer
Only those who look closely will see the beauty between her flaws.
This isn’t the end of things, but it’s certainly not the beginning of things either. Your undressing for the hell of it, snorting dope for the smell of it, and you’re hurting yourself, trying to prove a point that nobody is willing to listen to...
I bleed to un-break you, un-mending me. I fall to save you... now who will save me.
The Weaver My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me; I cannot choose the colors He worketh steadily. Oft times He weaveth sorrow And I, in foolish pride, Forget He sees the upper, And I the underside. Not til the loom is silent And the shuttles cease to fly, Shall God unroll the canvas And explain the reason why. The dark threads are as needful In the Weaver's skillful hand, As the threads of gold and silver In the pattern He has planned.
...a passing face together with his grief turned you into a weeping Madonna...
F. K. Preston
A death in reverse is the rewinding of life. I do not die of old age, in a bed surrounded by strangers my loved ones paid to take care of me. I die in reverse. I die falling back into a younger age. From my forty-five years to twenty-five. To sixteen. When we were in love. To fourteen: when we first met. To five. To one. To the hospital my mother died at from the complications of my existence. A life for a life.
We were hooked when we woke. We had arms for each other. But I yearned to resume My dreams of another.
Havin loved enough and lost enough, I'm no longer searching, just opening, no longer trying to make sense of pain but trying to be a soft and sturdy home in which real things can land. These are the irritations that rub into a pearl. So we can talk for a while but then we must listen, the way rocks listen to the sea. And we can churn at all that goes wrong but then we must lay all distractions down and water every living seed. And yes, on nights like tonight I too feel along. But seldom do I face it squarely enough to see that it's a door into the endless berath that has no breather, into the surf that human shell calls God.
There's two kinds of women--those you write poems about and those you don't.
All people are enslaved by something.
with you, the sense i have lost my place in a book or simply lost — misplaced the memory which isn't in the last place where I looked. a thought that the clouds don't move — that it is we who thunder past — there it is! an old vacation, a train ride — sense of immobility. as sky and forest scroll past in relation, we are not moved, pretend to love the view, resort at length to scripted conversation by a poet-turned-screenwriter who didn't want this job, career gone grossly wrong and now drafts action film scripts wholly two- dimensional unless you choose to don the 3d glasses that do not stay on —
If you wake up tired, you’ve been chasing dreams. If you go to bed tired, your making your dreams happen.
But do not fall only for what can be seen, there is more than just beauty and pleasure...
Even the most political poem is an act of faith.
Evil is real but God is greater.
SOWING LIGHTNING Seize Bolts of lightning from the sky And plant them in fields of life. They will grow like tender sprouts of fire. Charge somber thoughts With unexpected flash, You, my lightning in the soil!
Dissociated, I follow this body in its reckless haste.
I want to write about the Sea, whose waves run smoothly in incitement and carry joy, under the wings of freedom (Excerpted from Underneath horizons, chapter Resilience)
In your sublimity I find meaning In your love I find a universe In you I find an unknown radiance Your thoughts my anchor Your being my desire Your life my inspiration Your words my existence
Jose R. Coronado
Wars against nations for the necessity of lifes crumbs, oh how pitiful, falling for this pit full of lies, now a destiny of failures is inevitable. It's incredible, this deceit is immeasurable, God please enable me to be eligible from this trickery by perfecting my credibility.It's a building of my minds pyramids as if I belong to the secret society of masonry.
We all remember that moment in time. After that nothing was ever the same. We've been clinging one or the other yet all it causes is pain.
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 be But I promise to be with you till the rocks keep meeting the sea.
How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off? How long can I be Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand, Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon? The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow Lap at my back ineluctably. How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?
Henry David Thoreau
There is no doubt that the loftiest written wisdom is either rhymed or in some way musically measured,--is, in form as well as substance, poetry; and a volume which should contain the condensed wisdom of mankind need not have one rhythmless line.
With each kiss in the cold house we swallow clouds of breath – exhaled spirit, speech bubbles we’d rather lick away than fill with words. We run naked from room to room, keeping the walls warm. Our bodies blur through the halls of your house, its winter circulation.
I'm the G when you spell OG
Consider in his spiritual martyr this being who lies with closed eyes, dislocated like the victim of a brutal accident who no longer requires care or rescue. Count the stabbing wounds of the hideous disappointment in the human imagination. Auscultate this pensive desert where alternate the rale and the silence. Feel pity for the grief that calls not only for death, but for a disgracied death, and receive, o World, this weight of trampled dream in the paradise with no conscience of your vain eternity !
My fear extends into the stars Don't you know I never will