Best 8 184 of Poetry quotes - MyQuotes
I am a lifetime of exploration You have a lifetime to spend wandering
It was her laughter that made me love her. Her shy inappropriate madness is what made her beautiful.
Poetry for me is a result of lyrical meditation, pre-verbal in origin, and much of the craft has to do with finding a contemporary diction that embodies, at times subverts but never betrays that pre-verbal lyrical source: the presence of song before it is sung.
It is not written that you may not grieve. It is not written that you may not shed any tears. It is not written that feeling the emotion of the hurt that touched you would only make you weak. But it is written that after the rain, you will get a wonderful rainbow. It is written that at the end of every tunnel, you will find a bright light. It is written that after a journey of a thousand steps, you will find your way to your destination. It is written that after every difficulty comes ease, After every pain comes joy, After every hurt comes understanding. It is not written that you may not grieve, But my Darling, You can’t cry every time someone asks you your name!
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know
Living is the opposite of poetry. Poetry is the recollection of living, or, more often than not, the lament of having not lived. Or worse yet, merely the contemplation of living. My advice to you, Ms. Harper, is this: Live. And keep living. And never stop to look back to write about what you have lived and observed and overcome, lest you turn into a pillar of salt. This desert life is already full of such monoliths.
Only poetry can address grief.
I remember that summer we walked up the hill, sat atop on the rocks with time to kill; we let sweet red wine set us aglow, then four drunken eyes watched the sunset show I felt the colors enter my veins: warm light-pink shining golden rays; if there was a hue for happiness, I'm sure I saw it with you then
Now Now is the time… Now is the time – Make a change Now is the time – All is strange Now is the time – Start life anew Now is the time – Cannot stew Heartbreak, loss, pain, and challenges pale Now is the time – Sharp as a nail Now is the time – Take a chance Now is the time – Sing and dance Now is the time – Make a change Now is the time – engage Now is the time…
I go near to the shore And the rustling boat smiles I stare up at the moon And the stars shine bright I walk during the sunsets Observing the shades of nature Oh how I wonder Seeing the sunrise painting the sky But I fear that We are losing the art of god For we do not know How to make the world A great place to live in
There is a moon, that rests in the quiet corners of a lover’s lips.
I'd gladly trade the world And all of its gold, To see you safe in this fragile life.
Her eyes hide a tenderness that is more sensitive than all the red roses of the world.
William Butler Yeats
Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.
What perishes is only really real. I twist the dial and you are everywhere.
Our poetry now is the realization that we possess nothing. Anything therefore is a delight (since we do not posses it) and thus need not fear its loss.
My atoms love you atoms, it’s chemistry.
Thinking in its lower grades, is comparable to paper money, and in its higher forms it is a kind of poetry.
Entropy The Disintegrating Integration of Cheez-Whiz Squirts Insipid Inspiration Quoth the Oblong Eclipse of Nether-Knowledge Never Knowing Decaying Matter in a Decaying Orbit Orangutans of Science Study Ignorance of What The Cows Already Know.
Pound had argued - and Eliot had helped him prove - that a poem could be sustained by memorable moments. Olson proved that it could be sustained by unmemorable ones, provided that the texture of the accumulated jottings avoided the sound of failed poetry.
I find solace in a serenade the words of a stranger bringing comfort through the lines of a song, The pain intertwined in the verses and half notes My heart knows the words and I sing along as my soul finds healing through a ballad swirling through my stereo
Heather Angelika Dooley
The spiking temps spiked a fever for cool commons, so I made a plate of tapenade, bruschetta, and prosciutto, with orange creamsicle martinis flowing like a Zen fountain. It was hard for me to believe that I woke up that morning fighting back tears for no reason and all kinds of reasons. It is still... hard for me to believe that you have become no reason, at all.
The panther that has stalked you since you were a child is old now. No longer wild, and tired of guarding the treasure you yourself left behind - blind and deaf, she will give it all to you if you just let her go.
& he watches each muscle volt into place. the surgeon became the surgeon after years of opening books & making sense of their contents
My freedom is beckoning the cowards, To come out of their caves: See the vast sky above And breathe the fresh air that they crave.
All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.
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
Possible is more a matter of attitude, A matter of decision, to choose Among the impossible possibilities, When one sound opportunity Becomes a possible solution.
The first time I saw her, Everything in my head went quiet.
Beauty Lies Within The unknown
I know this life isn’t fair. I know that beauty will fade and hard times will grip our hearts and darkness will threaten to swallow us whole. But, I’m ready to face the night with you.
I learned a long, long time ago, that I could accomplish things in this place we call reality and yet still spend most of my time in the better reality of my mind.
Is the healing process the writing or the reading of that writing? What are we all healing from? Ourselves? What are we all healing towards? Ourselves?
My favourite poem is the one that starts 'Thirty days hath September' because it actually tells you something.
Give my soul to Heaven to keep it, while I am becoming nothing but pleasure in your skilful hands of a sculptor.
Dedicate your life to solitude and mortify your members which are upon the earth.
The Vagabond Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river - There's the life for a man like me, There's the life for ever. Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me. Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field - Warm the fireside haven - Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even! Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around, And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.
Invitation to Eternity Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid, Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me Through the valley-depths of shade, Of bright and dark obscurity; Where the path has lost its way, Where the sun forgets the day, Where there's nor light nor life to see, Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me? Where stones will turn to flooding streams, Where plains will rise like ocean's waves, Where life will fade like visioned dreams And darkness darken into caves, Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me Through this sad non-identity Where parents live and are forgot, And sisters live and know us not? Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me In this strange death of life to be, To live in death and be the same, Without this life or home or name, At once to be and not to be— That was and is not—yet to see Things pass like shadows, and the sky Above, below, around us lie? The land of shadows wilt thou trace, Nor look nor know each other's face; The present marred with reason gone, And past and present both as one? Say, maiden, can thy life be led To join the living and the dead? Then trace thy footsteps on with me: We are wed to one eternity.
I sit and watch The sunsets with the tears Flowing down my cheeks I wake up before the sunrise And look for you until the night
To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the music the words make.
Cheers to my old flames and all the lovers I haven't kissed yet.
She had the blood of the sun running through her veins and the dust of stars at her fingertips. Her every breath birthed new cosmos and her thoughts were the super moon of the darkest night. Every word was a supernova and every step an inescapable singularity. Her touch though...it was soft.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations.
Poetry is one of the ancient arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth. Also, it began through the process of seeing, and feeling, and hearing, and smelling, and touching, and then remembering--I mean remembering in words--what these perceptual experiences were like, while trying to describe the endless invisible fears and desires of our inner lives.
. . . On a sandbar sunlight stretches out its limbs, or is it a sycamore, so brazen, so clean and bold?
His tongue was one of his greatest qualities. He knew exactly how to use it with me. Encouraging, kind, and loving words flowed freely and frequently from his lips. Always inspiring me to upgrade my thinking. His tongue spoke life into me… Awakening gifts in me that I didn’t know existed. He used his tongue wisely. Truth be told, he’s part of the reason why I am me. Exquisite, Powerful, Fearless, and Unapologetic. I’ll be forever grateful for his genuine love.
Look at how deeply flawed we are and yet capable of loving so perfectly.
Poetry is easier to learn than prose. Once you have learned it you can use it as a light and a laser. It shows up your true situation and it helps you cut through it.
Naomi Shihab Nye
As a direct line to human feeling, empathic experience, genuine language and detail, poetry is everything that headline news is not. It takes us inside situations, helps us imagine life from more than one perspective, honors imagery and metaphor - those great tools of thought - and deepens our confidence in a meaningful world.