Best 1314 quotes in «poet quotes» category

The key to a wonderful life Is to never stop wandering into wonder. Because to live a predictable life, Only fills a person with strife, And such a person will always be wondering: 'What a limitless life could be lived beyond the lines?' Such is a question a curious spirit would never sit forever and ponder. So always pursue new ventures in your life, And be willing to open doors to different light; This is the only way to keep it magical and always filled with wonder. Days will feel shorter, but your happiness will grow stronger -- Because living a life without curiosity and adventure, Is a stale life where days only feel longer and Longer.

The kind of poem I produced in those days was hardly anything more than a sign I made of being alive, of passing or having passed, or hoping to pass, through certain intense human emotions. It was a phenomenon of orientation rather than of art, thus comparable to stripes of paint on a roadside rock or to a pillared heap of stones marking a mountain trail. But then, in a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one's position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. Tentacles, not wings, are Apollo's natural members. Vivian Bloodmark, a philosophical friend of mine, in later years, used to say that while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.

The known universe has one complete lover and that is the greatest poet.

The Lone Star of Africa Land of the free, on your beach and sacred forests loves flourished. You, Liberia, you my love to echo, the scream of freedom, holding tight and will never let go. O beautiful land, The Lone star for decades has survived wars and tribalism the elders who keep the ancestral treasures that resulted in Vandalism. When will morning break for great leaders to stand for what is right Mother Liberia?

The mainspring of genius is curiosity.

...the Moon, the enemy of poets... ("Merchant's Two Sons")

Then he began plucking the pins from her hair, carefully, without touching her anywhere else, and Eve began to wonder if 'hair' could possibly be erotic. She found herself holding her breath, listening to his deep, even exhalations as he worked, her hair loosening and beginning to slide. It fell all at once, uncoiling heavily over her shoulders. She turned her head to look at him, suddenly shy. He was staring at her hair. "It's beautiful," he murmured, burying his fingers in the long tresses, gently working apart the strands, lifting and spreading them. "Like liquid gold." He suddenly lifted the mass to his face. "And perfumed. Like flowers." "Lily of the valley." He made her feel exotic, still dressed in her sensible gray frock, only her hair loose about her shoulders. "Lily of the valley," he murmured. "I'll remember that scent forever now, and whenever I smell it again I'll think of you, Eve Dinwoody. You'll be haunting my tomorrows evermore." She gasped and turned, looking up at him. She'd thought that he'd be smiling teasingly at his words, but he looked quite serious and she stared at him in wonder. Had he always carried this part of himself inside? This wild poetic lover? If so, he'd hidden it well underneath the aggressive, foulmouthed theater manager. She had a secret fondness for the crass theater manager, but the pot... She swallowed, suddenly nervous. She might come to love a wild poet.

The nerd in me that needs to understand everything is dying to drive July to a lab and cut off pieces of her to look at under a microscope to see if I can figure out what’s keeping her alive, and the poet in me wants to ask her a million questions about being dead so that I can understand how she sees the world and what the stars look like through eyes that once saw what’s on the other side of life. But July doesn’t need a nerd or a poet. She needs a friend, and I suppose that unenviable job has fallen to me.

Then you are a poet?' she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket. 'No not at all,' he waved his hand. 'I am merely a character in a poem.

Then the pulse. Then a pause. Then twilight in a box. Dusk underfoot. Then generations. — Then the same war by a different name. Wine splashing in the bucket. The erection, the era. Then exit Reason. Then sadness without reason. Then the removal of the ceiling by hand. — Then pages & pages of numbers. Then the page with the faint green stain. Then the page on which Prince Theodore, gravely wounded, is thrown onto a wagon. Then the page on which Masha weds somebody else. Then the page that turns to the story of somebody else. Then the page scribbled in dactyls. Then the page which begins Exit Angel. Then the page wrapped around a dead fish. Then the page where the serfs reach the ocean. Then a nap. Then the peg. Then the page with the curious helmet. Then the page on which millet is ground. Then the death of Ursula. Then the stone page they raised over her head. Then the page made of grass which goes on. — Exit Beauty. — Then the page someone folded to mark her place. Then the page on which nothing happens. The page after this page. Then the transcript. Knocking within. Interpretation, then harvest. — Exit Want. Then a love story. Then a trip to the ruins. Then & only then the violet agenda. Then hope without reason. Then the construction of an underground passage between us. Srikanth Reddy, "Burial Practice" from Facts for Visitors. Copyright © 2004 by the Regents of the University of California. Reprinted by permission of The University of California Press. Source: Facts for Visitors (University of California Press, 2004)

The poet gives his whole life such a voluntarily steep incline that it is impossible for it to exist in the vertical line of biography where we expect to meet it. It is not to be found under his own name and must be sought under those of others, in the biographical columns of his followers. The more self-contained the individuality from which the life derives, the more collective, without any figurative speaking, is its story.

The one she needed most kept aloof, for she was, to hear her talk, changing her selves as quickly as she drove - there was a new one at every corner - as happens when, for some unaccountable reason, the conscious self, which is the uppermost, and has the power to desire, wishes to be nothing but one self. This is what some people call the true self, and it is, they say, compact of all the selves we have it in us to be; commanded and locked up by the Captain self, the Key self, which amalgamates and controls them all

The only way to find art is to lose touch with reality.

The poet Archibald MacLeish, then an Assistant Secretary of State, spoke critically of what he saw in the postwar world: "As things are now going, the peace we will make, the peace we seem to be making, will be a peace of oil, a peace of gold, a peace of shipping, a peace, in brief . . . without moral purpose or human interest. . . .

The poets and writers are born stylists!

The poet is a Cyclops in the Kingdom of the Blind whose sole cure for the madness of his vision must be starvation.

The poet is seldom or never merely describes nature; he inevitably beautifies and glorifies it,

The poet’s whole frame seemed to hug itself together, to contract, to tighten. Then he said: ‘I’m not in the least annoyed by anyone’s ways. We’re all beetles in the dung of the earth. If you go about with me Solent, you won’t be able to think of yourself like you like to do, or about any of your young ladies either! You’ll be glad enough to get three good meals every day and to sleep as long as you can. … You’ll learn from me more about the value of sleep than about courting young ladies. … So my advice is, get back to London, where that lord of your is and teach -' He was interrupted by the opening of the front door and the sound of Olwen’s shrill voice [...]

The poet is a faker / Who's so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.

The poet is rather one who inspires than one inspired.

The poet loves his dream girl, but he only accepts her when she is also same in real; otherwise, he remains in the dreams, writing love poetry and waiting for dream girl to come.

The Poets light but Lamps- Themselves-go out-

The pity is not that there is a myth of Sylvia Plath but that the myth is not simply that of an enormously gifted poet whose death came carelessly, by mistake, and too soon.

The rain always makes me wonder What is it that the clouds ponder? Will I write something tonight? But I don't want to miss the thunder!

The reading and writing of poetry has helped me navigate some of the most challenging years of my life. It has been both life-saving and life changing for me.

There are many unspeakable words, forgotten, or forbidden. Great thanks to the poets who make them all become reachable.

There Are No Believers in This World: There Are Only the Make Believers and the Non-Believers.

The Most Dangerous (Sab Ton Khatarnak - Paash) The most dangerous occurrence is not a robbery of hard work, The most horrifying act is not a torture by the police, A merger of treachery and greed is not the most dangerous. To be trapped while asleep is surely miserable, To be buried under the silence is surely miserable, But it is still not the most dangerous. To remain silent in the noise of corruption is surely miserable, Reading covertly under the light of a firefly is surely miserable, But it is still not the most dangerous. The most dangerous deed is to be filled with a dead silence, Not feeling any agony against the unjust and bearing it all. Getting trapped in the routine of running from home to work and from work to home, The most dangerous accident is a death of our dreams. The most dangerous thing is that watch which runs on your wrist, but stands still for your eyes **A Translation of Paash's poem Sab ton Khatarnak by Jasz Gill

There is no apology for passion

There is also a fable told by Phaedrus, about how Simonides was once a victim of shipwreck. As the other passengers scurried about the sinking ship trying to save their possessions, the poet stood idle. When questioned, he declared, mecum mea sunt cuncta: everything that is me is with me.

There is a madness in me that does not follow society.

There is no good or bad author; there is only one kind of an author, that who connects with the readers.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

There is something so innocent about blank pages That I can't lie to them about my existence

There’s ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors, A’ future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, Their unknown pages.

There's pain on all levels and all colors of the human skin. Many of us wear it well. The rest of us that you don't see are the ones who never learned to wear pain well. Or who learned and somewhere along the way decided it no longer fits.The irony is the more beautiful we wear our pain, the more we fool ourselves and others thinking there is no pain. The message. A bit more love and grace for myself and for friends and colleagues especially the ones that "have it all together" so beautifully.

There was something in her eyes!

The same things that make you unique in this world, make you a target for the archers consumed by fear and jealousy.

THE SCRIBE Under the wings Of the feathered Goddess And in the middle Of the three dancing women, The scribe comes alive To reveal mysteries hidden Through divine gifts given The scribe is driven On his mission To wake up All the universe's Men, women and Heavenly children. Under the seven rays of Aten, And from the age of just ten, The scribe comes alive With the ink Of his luminous pen. Below the spectacle of the moon, And in the smile of the sun, The scribe is here to show us How we are all one. THE SCRIBE by Suzy Kassem

These poems are cups that I pour my love into. Here, Drink!

These poems are cups that I pour my life into. Here, Drink!

The serenity of the lulling ocean is a wondrous thing to behold..more precious than the gems coveted and covered in platinum or gold...

The sky never falls with the rain. It is never weighed down by all that it carries. It takes all of its anchors and turns them into stars. Learn from this.

The so-called poet with his vague dreams and ideals is indeed no better than a harmless lunatic; the true poet is the worker, who grips life's throat and wrings out its secret, who selects austerely and composes concisely, whose work is as true and clean as razor-steel, albeit its sweep is vaster and swifter than the sun's!

The struggling poet and writer dreams again of standing on stage and reading his lines once again...

The tragedy of love is in its ending, the blessing—everything else. No love ever deserves to end.

The universe on your skin is empty from all the silence on your tongue. Forgive yourself. Let your body heal from all the wounds you did not inflict on yourself. Drop the sword you carry on your shoulder for self-defense. Lower the armor you hold high up for protection. Those who harmed you are not going to come back. Those who have left never intended to return.

The Wild Heart wants promises of forever. The Peaceful Soul just wants harmony in the present.

The world we live in is a product of a grand dream … the dream of a Great Thinker; yes, the Big Poet. That’s why wherever you go, you hear the sweet music flowing about it … the chirping of crickets; the sough of the wind … The whistling of a bird, the gurgle of a stream. The buzz of the bees, the creaks of tree limbs. The chatter of monkeys, the patter of the rain …