Best 24 quotes of Wendy Cope on MyQuotes

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half. And that orange it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park This is peace and contentment. It's new. The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all my jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I'm glad I exist.

Bloody Christmas, here again, let us raise a loving cup, peace on earth, goodwill to men, and make them do the washing up.

Bloody men are like bloody buses - you wait for about a year and as soon as one approaches your stop two or three others appear.

I always tell students that writing a poem and publishing it are two quite separate things, and you should write what you have to write, and if you're afraid it's going to upset someone, don't publish it.

I have a theory that if you've got the kind of parents who want to send you to boarding school, you're probably better off at boarding school.

I like buying clothes, especially as I get a tax-deductible allowance.

In my case, the long gaps between my books have got quite a lot to do with lack of confidence. A lot of the time when I'm not writing I start thinking I can't do it.

I think it's a question which particularly arises over women writers: whether it's better to have a happy life or a good supply of tragic plots.

I used to think all poets were Byronic Mad, bad and dangerous to know. And then I met a few. See Lamb 486:25.

I've said what I'm prepared to say in my poems, and then journalists think that you're going to tell them a whole lot more.

I was single for a long time and felt very much alone in the world, and talk of family values upset me very much at that phase in my life, because I used to think: 'What about people like me?

Never trust a journalist.

My heart has made its mind up And I’m afraid it’s you. Whatever you’ve got lined up, My heart has made its mind up And if you can’t be signed up This year, next year will do. My heart has made its mind up And I’m afraid it’s you.

On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes, the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes. I wipe them away with a black woolly glove And try not to notice I've fallen in love On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think: This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink. But the juke-box inside me is playing a song That says something different. And when was it wrong? On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care. the head does its best but the heart is the boss- I admit it before I am halfway across

Some socks are loners They can't live in pairs.

The interesting thing is that you don't often meet a poet who doesn't have a sense of humour, and some of them do keep it out of their poems because they're afraid of being seen as light versifiers.

There are so many kinds of awful men One can't avoid them all. She often said She'd never make the same mistake again: She always made a new mistake instead.

The reason modern poetry is difficult is so that the poet's wife cannot understand it.

Write to amuse? What an appalling suggestion! I write to make people anxious and miserable and to worsen their indigestion.

Another Christmas Poem Blood Christmas, here again. Let us raise a loving cup: Peace on earth, goodwill to men, And make them do the washing-up.

Bloody men are like bloody buses — You wait for about a year And as soon as one approaches your stop Two or three others appear. You look at them flashing their indicators, Offering you a ride. You’re trying to read the destinations, You haven’t much time to decide. If you make a mistake, there is no turning back. Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by And the minutes, the hours, the days.

It wasn’t you, it wasn’t me, Up there, two thousand feet above A New York street. We’re safe and free, A little while, to live and love, Imagining what might have been – The phone-call from the blazing tower, A last farewell on the machine, While someone sleeps another hour, Or worse, perhaps, to say goodbye And listen to each other’s pain, Send helpless love across the sky, Knowing we’ll never meet again, Or jump together, hand in hand, To certain death. Spared all of this For now, how well I understand That love is all, is all there is.

New Season No coats today. Buds bulge on chestnut trees, And on the doorstep of a big, old house A young man stands and plays his flute. I watch the silver notes fly up And circle in the blue sky above the traffic, Travelling where they will. And suddenly this paving-stone Midway between my front door and the bus stop Is a starting point. From here I can go anywhere I choose.

The day he moved out was terrible – That evening she went through hell. His absence wasn’t a problem But the corkscrew had gone as well.