Best 1314 quotes in «poet quotes» category

Give me any goddamn thing and I will do it with style!

Give contemporary POET more SPACE & a long-last MAGIC will surround you all again.

God designed love to make the world living; so if world's dying, we know what's missing. When missing, God designed another thing: "This one is hatred-to do repairing." Oh, how the world treats hatred as beastly; yet sans hatred, who'll fight depravity? Hatred used to correct is celestial; but when used to oppress, it is bestial.

God doesn't listen to me too, but people have their suspicions. सुनता तो रब हमारी भी नहीं, पर लोगों को अल्लाह पे शक बेशक है

God is the world's oldest poet; love is the world's oldest poem.

God takes away the minds of poets, and uses them as his ministers, as he also uses diviners and holy prophets, in order that we who hear them may know them to be speaking not of themselves who utter these priceless words in a state of unconsciousness, but that God himself is the speaker, and that through them he is conversing with us.

Go for it because for all those moments that you would make up your mind the other might have already rushed for it.

God would seem to indicate to us and not allow us to doubt that these beautiful poems are not human, or the work of man, but divine and the work of God; and that the poets are only the interpreters of the Gods...

Good or bad, positive or negative, there is no comment more insulting to a poet than one displaying that you have not properly read and considered the things they wrote.

Grand Sky/Grand Prairie Both harbor the vastness of space. One holds the space Of starlight, thunder snow, rock and icy comets, scrolls Of clouds; the other the spaces inside see heart and ovum, Root webs, spider webs, budded blossoms. They lean together tightly day and night, pressing One into the other, each creating the horizon of the other. They exchange themselves. At evening one becomes The steady night in which the other lives. Yet witness How the moon first rises from the body of the prairie Into the height of the sky that then possesses it. Their horizons are persistent illusion.

Hemingway is overrated, Twain is even more lost at sea, And all truths point to the mouth of a woman, Where both her whispers and her screams, Are born. Pour another glass, Beer, wine, whiskey, I don't care, So long as its wisdom is sharp, And it tells lies instead of promises.

Happy New Year (31 Dec 2017) December 31. A wine fish was lost in your long cheeks of swallows. I looked up and discovered that the starry night was never so lonely. Yes! The night full of stars was never so lonely! How else can someone be alone, if not surrounded by his soul? How else can someone be alone, if not populated by his soul?

Hearts shall dance once again; when canvas of ice is painted with the brush of skates.

Have you been caring to all your children? Will they take you than be at old folks' den? Will they feel honored pushing your wheelchair? Will hearts break when your breath runs out of spare?

He informed Byrdie that his social engineering ambitions betrayed all the delusions of grandeur that you might expect from the son of a poet.

Her silhouette never has regrets.

Her legacy was that she loved with all she had, whether you deserved it or not.

Her thoughts became mysteriously tightened and strung up as if a piano tuner had put his key in her back and stretched the nerves very taut

He was to them like the poet of a new school who takes his contemporaries by storm; who is not really new, but is the first to articulate what all his listeners have felt, though but dumbly till then.

He was a poet -oh all men are when they're in love.

He without inspiration and motivation exists no more in a world full of innovations and inventions!

He wouldn't perform without a recording now, she was certain, like a poet working in the oral tradition who had been contaminated by the advent of the recording device and so insisted that all improvisations be saved for posterity.

His eyes spark with revolutions, enlightened trickery and unconditional affection.

How are his poems?" "He's not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way.

How to be a Poet (to remind myself) i Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon affection, reading, knowledge, skill—more of each than you have—inspiration work, growing older, patience, for patience joins time to eternity… ii Breathe with unconditional breath the unconditioned air. Shun electric wire. Communicate slowly. Live a three-dimensional life; stay away from screens. Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in. There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places. iii Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays, make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came.

How—I didn't know any word for it—how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't?

How much living have you done? From it the patterns that you weave Are imaged: Your own life is your totem pole, Your yard of cloth, Your living. How much loving have you done? How full and free your giving? For living is but loving And loving only giving.

I am in awe of flowers. Not because of their colors, but because even though they have dirt in their roots, they still grow. They still bloom.

I am just a poet of a few moments. One day, I will be gone away from this world. If you miss me, please read my words.

I am no one's to be claimed, I belong to me.

Humans have the ability to rewrite history. Within a few decades it is not even questioned. Stories of the past become as real as the world you walk through today. Wars are waged over false history. Sins are denied. All for mankind to move forward and feel comfortable about its past. Your true history is written in the stars. Look up, breathe in, and be humbled by the ones who came before you. The ones who have suffered, who have endured, who have overcome. Their blood is alive in you. Their spirits roam freely in the heavens above.

I am a poet and I love riding a motorcycle!

I am a poet and I love riding motorcycle!

I am not a poet, I am a poem!

I am not a poet. But from to the day that we met. I have started writing poetry.

I am poetry in motion

I am the Lone Wolf and the Moon is mine.

I am the poet with scaring words and blurred letters. I do not know if my poetry is a blessing or a curse.

I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down, I just wanted to be a poem

I am part of all that I have met.

I am sitting here, you are sitting there. Say even that you are sitting across the kitchen table from me right now. Our eyes meet; a consciousness snaps back and forth. What we know, at least for starters, is: here we- so incontrovertibly- are. This is our life, these are our lighted seasons, and then we die. In the meantime, in between time, we can see. The scales are fallen from our eyes, the cataracts are cut away, and we can work at making sense of the color-patches we see in an effort to discover where we so incontrovertibly are. I am as passionately interested in where I am as is a lone sailor sans sextant in a ketch on an open ocean. I have at the moment a situation which allows me to devote considerable hunks of time to seeing what I can see, and trying to piece it together. I’ve learned the name of some color-patches, but not the meanings. I’ve read books; I’ve gathered statistics feverishly: the average temperature of our planet is 57 degrees F…The average size of all living animals, including man, is almost that of a housefly. The earth is mostly granite, which is mostly oxygen…In these Appalachians we have found a coal bed with 120 seams, meaning 120 forests that just happened to fall into water…I would like to see it all, to understand it, but I must start somewhere, so I try to deal with the giant water bug in Tinker Creek and the flight of three hundred redwings from an Osage orange and let those who dare worry about the birthrate and population explosion among solar systems. So I think about the valley. And it occurs to me more and more that everything I have seen is wholly gratuitous. The giant water bug’s predations, the frog’s croak, the tree with the lights in it are not in any real sense necessary per se to the world or its creator. Nor am I. The creation in the first place, being itself, is the only necessity for which I would die, and I shall. The point about that being, as I know it here and see it, is that as I think about it, it accumulates in my mind as an extravagance of minutiae. The sheer fringe and network of detail assumes primary importance. That there are so many details seems to be the most important and visible fact about creation. If you can’t see the forest for the trees, then look at the trees; when you’ve looked at enough trees, you’ve seen a forest, you’ve got it. If the world is gratuitous, then the fringe of a goldfish’s fin is a million times more so. The first question- the one crucial one- of the creation of the universe and the existence of something as a sign and an affront to nothing is a blank one… The old Kabbalistic phrase is “the Mystery of the Splintering of the Vessels.” The words refer to the shrinking or imprisonment of essences within the various husk-covered forms of emanation or time. The Vessels splintered and solar systems spun; ciliated rotifers whirled in still water, and newts laid tracks in the silt-bottomed creek. Not only did the Vessels splinter; they splintered exceeding fine. Intricacy then is the subject, the intricacy of the created world.

I became an artist because I wanted to be an active participant in the conversation about art.

I believe that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a great poet, and I have sometimes thought that his outbursts of imaginative talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of personal communication. How often have I seen him draw his dark brows together, fix his eyes upon some object on the wall or a figure in the carpet, and then flash into the lamplight the very image that was in his brain.

i bring my kiasu friend to the airport leavings are never easy, not for long and though we both saw blur along the way memories flooded present tensions. in the curry of his life no lemak remained so now the predictable exit signalled the end of his roundings, his bombings– he can bluff like hell, ma, he got style– and left me thinking about home, my kampong.

i can gladly die today knowing that a part of me will always remain within you...

Ibrahim tizenhárom esztendős nagyvezérsége idején olyan rendhagyó viszonyok uralkodtak a Portán, amelyek ott korábban is, később is elképzelhetetlenek lettek volna, s amelyekben felfedezhetők az „europaizálódás” felületi ismérvei is. A görög renegát olyan gesztusokat engedett meg magának, amelyek megzavarták és megbotránkoztatták a hithű mohamedánokat. Olyannyira megtetszettek például neki a budai várban 1526-ban felfedezett hatalmas ércszobrok, hogy azokat Isztambulba szállíttatta, és – bár a mohamedán felfogás tiltotta az emberábrázolást – fel is állíttatta a város egyik legforgalmasabb helyén, az At mejdánon. Egy csípős nyelvű ortodox költő az alábbi versezettel adott hangot nemtetszésének: "két Ibrahim élt a földön, az egyik [a bibliai Ábrahám] összetörette a bálványokat a másik újból életre keltette azokat." (Ibrahim válaszul kivégeztette a verselőt.)

I breathe in... The sights and smells Of this city I’ve come to know... So well I gaze... Across the turquoise ocean Where the waves Liberate my spirit... From its shell I breathe in... The brilliant sky line Where the birds Emerge shyly From the dappled sunshine I breathe in... The gently... Blowing winds That soothe me Like a mother, around her child I breathe in... The sounds of laughter Pure and pretty Like the golden-green butterfly I’m always after I breathe in... The closeness, I have always shared With people, Who almost knew me, Almost cared I breathe in... The comfort Of my home, The safe walls, The scents of childhood On the pillows I breathe in...the silence Of my own heart Aching with tenderness... With memories.. Of home I breathe... in... The fragrance Of love, and moist sand The one... His roses left... On both my hands And I just keep on breathing Every moment As much as I can Preserving it, in my body For the day It can’t So I breathe in.. Once again.. Feeling life's energy Fizzing through my cells Never knowing What awaits me Or what's going to happen to me.. Next I breathe in This moment... Knowing it's either life Or it's death I close my eyes, And breathe in Just believing in myself.

I can feel the emotions of others. I feel it inside my own being. And I can use this to heal the other person. I recently got to know that I am an INFJ personality type: the rarest of all personalities in our world.

I clearly understand, first, that the real human being is a poet and, second, that [the tyrant] is the incarnate negation of a poet.

I chase the wind and get lost in the clouds. I'm sweep into darkness in my search for the light.