Best 1314 quotes in «poet quotes» category

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 …

The world you are in – Is the true hell. The journey to Truth itself Is what quickens the heart to become lighter. The lighter the heart, the purer it is. The purer the heart, the closer to light it becomes. And the heavier the heart, The more chained to this hell It will remain.

They say I’m a poet I say I just put words Into feelings To justify My inadequacy

They are so beautiful: your words" she told me. And I said "No, you are!

They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of what the state of poetry is?

They say that history is going on somewhere. They say it won't stop. I have held One picture still for a long time and waited.

They came and they left. You cried, but you stood your ground. You stayed tethered to hope as well as committed to dignified dreams and little victories of day-to-day life. You felt different. Then you started to change. Your smile returned with reticence before completely taking over your face. Today, you are no longer afraid to let that smile be there, and now you understand it was not about them. It was never about anyone else. This was about you from the day you were born. This was about you learning to love yourself— not letting the inferiority of the external corrupt the piety of the internal. This was your personal revolution. This was the uprising of your lifetime. And you won.

They say copying is a form of flattery, I say it's lack of originality.

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words have the ability to change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world - there I am a child - there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance - I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child - Some think me middling, others silly, other foolish - every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will; when in thruth it is with my will - I am content to be thought all this because I have in my own breast so graet a resource. This is one great reason why they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room, and eclipese from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet - I hope I am not here playing tricks 'to make the angels weep': I think not: for I have not the least contempt for my species; and though it may sound paradoxical: my greatest elevations of Soul leave me every time more humbled - Enough of this - though in your Love for me you will not think it enough.

This empty shell holds nothing but the echoes of what was.

This life can make you feel depressed, leaving you with so much stress, but all you can do is try your best.

This is how I recognize an authentic poet: by frequenting him, living a long time in the intimacy of his work, something changes in myself, not so much my inclinations or my tastes as my very blood, as if a subtle disease had been injected to alter its course, its density and nature. To live around a true poet is to feel your blood run thin, to dream a paradise of anemia, and to hear, in your veins, the rustle of tears.

This poem was meant to be unwritten. But I am writing it now and have thereby changed destiny.

This was a Poet - It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings - And Attar so immense

THIS This is a moment to remember, this, our breaths still heavy, the smell of summer gentle through the window, the sound of the world, not even a distraction, the words ‘I love you’ unneeded.

This was but a prelude; where books are burnt human-beings will be burnt in the end

Those people who shoot endless time-lapse films of unfurling roses and tulips have the wrong idea. They should train their cameras instead on the melting of pack ice, the green filling of ponds, the tidal swings…They should film the glaciers of Greenland, some of which creak along at such a fast clip that even the dogs bark at them. They should film the invasion of the southernmost Canadian tundra by the northernmost spruce-fir forest, which is happening right now at the rate of a mile every 10 years. When the last ice sheet receded from the North American continent, the earth rebounded 10 feet. Wouldn’t that have been a sight to see?

To be a woman is to be a fighter! A woman has to be strong and has to fight every moment of her life - against a society that believes in patriarchy, chauvinism and male privilege!

THREE BASIC TRUTHS Three things have a limited threshold: Time, pain, and death. While truth, love, and knowledge – Are boundless. Three things are needed For humanity to co-exist: Truth, peace and basic needs. Everything else - Is irrelevant.

Time changes nothing, girl, but the size of your underwear. . .and hopefully your hairdo.

TO A GIRAFFE If it is unpermissible, in fact fatal to be personal and undesirable to be literal—detrimental as well if the eye is not innocent-does it mean that one can live only on top leaves that are small reachable only by a beast that is tall?— of which the giraffe is the best example— the unconversational animal. When plagued by the psychological, a creature can be unbearable that could have been irresistible; or to be exact, exceptional since less conversational than some emotionally-tied-in-knots animal. After all consolations of the metaphysical can be profound. In Homer, existence is flawed; transcendence, conditional; “the journey from sin to redemption, perpetual.

To a poet, his works aren't just a reflection of life itself, but an entire life in the boundless invisible. Isn't the heavenly oasis of all human emotions - the soul - invisible? I reaped: We cannot see the wind, but we can feel it, we cannot see the warmth of the sun, but we can also feel it. This bond between nature and humans is the best proof of the Creator’s existence.

To be a poet you have to break all the boundaries that society has built around you so you can dig out the hidden obstacles and reveal it .

Till the time you realize your conquest you already reach that stage when you start losing the grip.

Time is the real emperor and there is no space for any pride since time flies and blows away anything.

To a poet nothing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful and whatever is dreadful, must be familiar to his imagination: he must be conversant with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little.

To be a poet in today’s technological age means to be underrated and at times, ignored. In a world where the noise of industry reigns supreme, the poet’s voice is being drowned out, but it is a voice that is desperately needed. Our words ring out into the atmosphere and calls the masses back to their senses. We must seize this opportunity and remain true to our purpose in society. Ours is a most noble duty, here to represent the misunderstood and underrepresented, and one day, one person will heed the call of our words and the world will be set ablaze!

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession." ~ Robert Graves

Today is half of Yesterday and Tomorrow, Choose Today to make Tomorrow

Today is the winter solstice. The planet tilts just so to its star, lists and holds circling in a fixed tension between veering and longing, and spins helpless, exalted, in and out of that fleet blazing touch. Last night Orion vaulted and spread all over the sky, pagan and lunatic, his shoulder and knee on fire, his sword three suns at the ready-for what? I won’t see this year again, not again so innocent; and longing wrapped round my throat like a scarf. “For the Heavenly Father desires that we should see,” says Ruysbroeck, “and that is why He is ever saying to our inmost spirit one deep unfathomable word and nothing else.” But what is the word? Is this mystery or coyness? A cast-iron bell hung from the arch of my rib cage; when I stirred, it rang, or it tolled, a long syllable pulsing ripples up my lungs and down the gritty sap inside my bones, and I couldn’t make it out; I felt the voiced vowel like a sigh or a note but I couldn’t catch the consonant that shaped it into sense.

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic, and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!

To live day by day Is not to live at all.

Tom prilikom Kafka mi reče: "Vi opisujete pesnika kao nekog čudesno velikog čoveka čije noge su na zemlji dok mu glava nestaje u oblacima. To je, prirodno, sasvim uobičajena slika u okviru malograđanskih konvencionalnih predstava. To je iluzija, proizišla iz skrivenih želja, a koja nema ničeg zajedničkog sa stvarnošću. U stvarnosti je pesnik uvek manji i slabiji od društvenog proseka. Otuda on oseća teret zemaljskog postojanja intenzivnije i jače nego drugi ljudi. Njegova pesma je za njega samo krik. Umetnost je za umetnika patnja putem koje on sebe oslobađa za novu patnju. On nije nikakav div, nego je tek više ili manje živopisna ptica u kavezu svoje egzistencije.

Tonight, I won't dream, because nobody has held me and no hands have strayed and even though I'm drunk with love, my arms are empty.