Best 1314 quotes in «poet quotes» category

TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO “Even when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.”—VICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow — Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow “has wings,” however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso “corvo,” although con dizionario io parlo Italiano— this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too — my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow— gioièllo mio— I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, s erafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, addio. (((((Impromptu equivalents for esperanto madinusa (made in U.S.A.) for those who might not resent them. azzurro-negro: blue-black vivorosso: lively con dizionario: with dictionary savio ucello: knowing bird botto e totto: vow and motto io giuro: I swear è questo credo: is this credo lucro è peso morto: profit is a dead weight gioièllo mio: my jewel a bel bosco: to lovely woods tuttuto vagabondo: complete gypsy serafino uvaceo: grape-black seraph sunto: in short verecondo: modest))))

Trump is not a president who got caught in a lie — he is a mobster who got caught being president.

Truth. You never completely heal from some heartbreaks. You are still worthy of giving and receiving love.

Tu comprends... ce billet, - c'était très émouvant: Je me suis fait pleurer moi-même en l'écrivant.

Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.

U nekim trenucima, cak i pisac pozeli da bude necija poezija.

UNDIVIDED I am for One world undivided. One world without fear and corruption. One world ruled by Truth and Justice. I am for One peaceful world for all, Where hate has been overcome by love, And everyone is guided only By their conscience.

Use all the ugliness you’re feeling to make something beautiful

Was there a poet who hadn't written about skylarks?

We all have our own sole purpuse for this existence. I can't be everything, even if i dabble between all the crafts that shape me. I can be the expressive queen i am though, crumbling all the comfort zones this world has tried to build to stop the evolution of my spirit. One day i am a calm breeze, the next i am a wild hurricaine - i am so deeply passionate, you'll feel me without a single hello.

We all knew she needed help. But none of us knew how. And none of us could swallow our pride and just ask her what she needed. I don’t know why. Maybe we were too ashamed we didn’t know how to approach our own mother. So we let the years slip unhappily past us and hoped we would never inherit the misery embedded in her soul. But I did. And I didn’t know how to say it aloud. And I still don’t.

We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.

We need a spark to lit a fire inside us. A spark is an inspiration to make art, a fear to find courage, and a pain to provoke strength. A spark is unplanned and unexpected incident that happens in the middle of your ordinary life. After that, it leaves a fire burning in your heart. A fire to achieve, a fire that will keep you going!

We choose exile as a vantage point; from exile we look back on the rejected

we divulge the secrets that draw us closer to the hearts of others and lock away the ones that would soil us entirely

we were never a match; always a marvelous misfit.

Were the earth as smooth as a ball bearing, it might be beautiful seen from another planet, as the rings of Saturn are. But here we live and move; we wander up and down the banks of the creek, we ride a railway through the Alps, and the landscape shifts and changes. Were the earth smooth, our brains would be smooth as well; we would wake, blink, walk two steps to get the whole picture and lapse into dreamless sleep. Because we are living people, and because we are on the receiving end of beauty, another element necessarily enters the question. The texture of space is a condition of time. Time is the warp and matter the weft of woven texture of beauty in space, and death is the hurtling shuttle… What I want to do, then, is add time to the texture, paint the landscape on an unrolling scroll, and set the giant relief globe spinning on it stand.

we want it visible to show when even the most visible joy will reveal itself only when we have transformed it within. there’s nowhere, my love, the world can exist expect within.

What are we? Not human without our wounds and all the constructs we have added to our lives to heal ourselves from that which still sits there Wounds. A frenemy.

...what else would a poet priest do on an endless night, but write of love?...

What broke your heart so bad That you had to close every door, That you say you have a dark soul And can't utter the word 'love' anymore?

What do you do when you cannot see any light? Where do you go when you cannot see any path? So I became the wanderer and wandering became my destiny!

Whatever is language is poetic language and if the word required by the poet does not exist in his known language then it is up to him to discover it.

What is the finding of love, but a voice answering a voice?

What is poetry? The person who answers it, can't be a poet!

What others wallow in daily and do not appreciate, the poet ever with his ears to the ground would discern and acknowledge in just a moment. Children are poets. Watch them at play and you’d learn to appreciate so many things you’ve already taken for granted.

What the poet has to say to the torso of the supposed Apollo, however, is more than a note on an excursion to the antiquities collection. The author's point is not that the thing depicts an extinct god who might be of interest to the humanistically educated, but that the god in the stone constitutes a thing-construct that is still on air. We are dealing with a document of how newer message ontology outgrew traditional theologies. Here, being itself is understood as having more power to speak and transmit, and more potent authority, than God, the ruling idol of religions. In modern times, even a God can find himself among the pretty figures that no longer mean anything to us - assuming they do not become openly irksome. The thing filled with being, however, does not cease to speak to us when its moment has come.

What're you reading?" "Gertrude Stein." I shook my head. I'd never heard of her. "The poet?" he asked. "You know, 'A rose is a rose is a rose'?" I shook my head again. "During the last year of her life, my mother became obsessed with her," Grant said. "She'd spent most of her life reading the Victorian poets, and when she found Gertrude Stein, she told me she was a comfort." "What does she mean, 'A rose is a rose is a rose'?" I asked. Snapping the biology book shut, I was confronted with the skeleton of a human body. I tapped the empty eye socket. "That things just are what they are," he said. " 'A rose is a rose.' " " 'Is a rose,' " he finished, smiling faintly. I thought about all the roses in the garden below, their varying shades of color and youth. "Except when it's yellow," I said. "Or red, or pink, or unopened, or dying." "That's what I've always thought," said Grant. "But I'm giving Ms. Stein the opportunity to convince me.

What's your name?" he asked. She'd turned to him with a deep frown, instantly terrifying him. About to turn to escape back into the bookshop, Walt was stopped by her shrug. "Cora." "That's a funny name." "It isn't, actually." Cora's frown deepened. She pulled herself up to her full height of four foot three inches. 'Officially my name is Cori, but Grandma calls me Cora. I'm named in honor of Gerty Cori, the first woman winner of the Nobel Prize in medicine. I bet you didn't know that." "No," Walt admitted, embarrassed. "I didn't." "What's your name?" "Walt," he offered quietly, expecting her to retort that his was an even sillier name, but she didn't. "After the scientist?" Walt frowned, thrown. "What scientist?" Cora shrugged. "Maybe Luis Walter Alvarez or Walter Reed, but... actually Walter Sutton is the most famous. He invented a theory about chromosomes and the Mendelian laws of inheritance." Cora let slip a little smile of satisfaction at the blank look on the boy's face. "Or maybe Walter Lewis-" "No," Walt interrupted, "I've never heard of any of them." "Oh." Cora folded her arms and tilted her nose upward. "Then who are you named after?" she asked, as if this was a given. "Walt Whitman," he retorted. "The poet.

When African slave Phillis Wheatley wrote poetry, 18 men came to assess whether that was possible.

When a poet settled down to write a poem, could he foresee the lines he would write? Did his head constantly spin with riddles and rhymes and was his only job to put them down? What if he couldn’t get them to make sense, and no one, not even the person he cared for most, could have pleasure in reading it? What would he do?

When confronted with suffering that won't go away or with even a minor problem, we instinctively focus on what is missing,...not on the Master's hand. Often when you think everything has gone wrong, it's just that you're in the middle of a story. If you watch the stories God is weaving in your life, you... will begin to see the patterns. You'll become a poet, sensitive to your Father's voice.

When Great Trees Fall When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker down in tall grasses, and even elephants lumber after safety. When great trees fall in forests, small things recoil into silence, their senses eroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomes light, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see with a hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, promised walks never taken. Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon their nurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formed and informed by their radiance, fall away. We are not so much maddened as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves. And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.

When it comes to death, procrastination is encouraged.

When in love, every soul becomes a poet.

When it's easier to buy a cache of assault weapons than cast a vote — expect massacres to be the norm.

When on your way home to your family, and you meet some friends who do invite thee, learn to say no, lest they’re dearer to you than your family who’s waiting for you. When you’re running late for sales appointment, and you see fuss over an accident, don’t you get drawn in by the commotion, lest you miss out on the presentation.

When I write, regardless of what I’m writing, or how I approach the writing task, I’ve got this image or shape or feeling inside me somewhere, a sort of embroidery pattern, a sort of magic-pencil outline, a sort of distant melody." — Pamela Mordecai

when you're a poet you can dish out whatever's on your mind and you don't have to apologize for it

When she bites my lips, I see stars dancing right next to the sun.

When the night comes to break my heart, I think of you.

When you read someone's poetry, you carry their pain. When you listen to their music, you carry their soul.

When you told me I didn't love you I simply thought how would you know For I remembered the spaces between your fingers And the crease between your eyes How dare you tell me I never thought of you as mine.

When the hatred stops will the love begin? When there is no more greed will there then be peace?

When the melody plays, footsteps move, heart sings and spirit begin to dance.

When your heart starts to feel full again. I love FREE refills, and if a restaurant tries to double charge me, I refuse to write a love poem on their Yelp page. -Karen Quan and Jarod Kintz

WHO AM I? I have seven heavenly panels Leading up to a pointed sphere I’m multidimensional like a crystal And my center is never clear. I’m an inventor and pioneer. A mentor to my peers. But I'm not as sound as my shell reveals, Because I’m tormented by my fears - That may appear to be grounded But my insides are filled with tears. And the sadness is well-founded, From years and years Of traumatic experiences Compounded In the most demented Atmospheres. I talk but feel like nobody hears. Has reason disappeared? And, God, are you near? This is Giza’s 7th light force And I'm asking you to interfere. I can no longer walk amongst the blind and dead With open eyes and ears. I’m trying to maintain my sanity And to straighten up my veneer As I roll amongst the growing calamities Flowing on Earth’s severely trashed Frontier. Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun (2010)

Why is it surprising that I, your Little Sequin, can write devastating love poems? Tell me how you can spot the violent storms inside a heart? Can you identify which person is going through a revolution? Which is revolting against their thoughts and overthrowing their mind, only to make their heart king? There is a world inside each of us. By writing, I hope to share mine with you. So please, step inside.

Why long for heaven up there we don't see, When there's heaven down here that's so lovely. Why mind the hell up there we can't fathom, When there's hell down here that's worse than Sodom.

Whose starboard eye Saw chariot 'swing low'?