Best 1314 quotes in «poet quotes» category

Out of the deep and the dark, A sparkling mystery, a shape, Something perfect, Comes like the stir of the day: One whose breath is an odour, Whose eyes show the road to stars, The breeze in his face, The glory of Heaven on his back. He steps like a vision hung in air, Diffusing the passion of Eternity; His abode is the sunlight of morn, The music of eve his speech: In his sight, One shall turn from the dust of the grave, And move upward to the woodland.

... paint in blue and black...sometimes gray - the colors of night - occasionally I surprise you with a mustard yellow, but then, I am a poet ...

Passion in every word I wrote, passion in every single thought.

Pay to go inside Neruda's home A body lies there with no dome. But right there in the front hall Lean a fairy against the icy wall. Oh Endless enigmas had the bard! Nice and large and calm backyard Ends In the middle of a rare room Rare portrait of revelishing gloom. Up climbing at the weird snail stair Does make you grasp for some air. And there's a room with bric-a-brac: Old and precious books all in a pack. Dare saying what I liked most of all? Enjoyed seeing visitors having a ball!

People admired her poetry, but she knew there were plenty of readers who questioned it. How could she write brokenhearted verse if she never loved? Why did she compose so much about death if she knew little of life?

People worship god. I worship this separation from you. It is worth Haj to a hundred Meccas, This separation from you. People say I am as brilliant as the sun, They say I am famous. What a fire it has lit in me, This separation from you. Behind me is my shadow, Ahead, is my darkness. I fear that it might leave me, This separation from you. No taint of the body is in it, Nor litter of the mind, All has been winnowed out, By this separation from you. When sorrow comes, bringing with it Loneliness and pain, I pull it close to me, This separation from you. Sometimes it colors my words Sometimes it weaves through my songs, It has taught me great deal, This separation from you. When sorrow, defeated, fell at my feet, Amazed at my fidelity, The world came out to see This separation from you. Love earned me fame. People flocked to praise me. It wept in my embrace, This separation from you. The world turned out to tell me, That I had been unwise. It sat me on a throne today This separation from you.

Perhaps he even needs to have been a critic and a sceptic and a dogmatist and an historian, and in addition a poet and collector and traveller and puzzle-solver and moralist and seer and ‘free spirit’ and nearly all things, so that he can traverse the range of human values and value-feelings and be able to look with many kinds of eyes and consciences from the heights into every distance, from the depths into every height, from the corners into every wide expanse.

Persimpangan ini papan tandanya sudah kelam bukan samar-samar lagi Seperti semalam berurai titik hitam di permukaan mentari saat kubuka jendela tadi pagi Singgahsana kematian dalam kehausan

Poetry is alive because it is a medium of vision and experience. It is not necessarily comfortable. It is not necessarily safe.

Philosophy is to the mind of the architect as eyesight to his steps. The Term 'genius' when applied to him simply means a man who understands what others only know about. A poet, artist or architect, necessarily 'understands' in this sense and is likely, if not careful, to have the term 'genius' applied to him; in which case he will no longer be thought human, trustworthy or companionable. Whatever may be his medium of expression he utters truth with manifest beauty of thought. If he is an architect, his building is natural. In him, philosophy and genius live by each other, but the combination is subject to popular suspicion and appellation 'genius' likely to settle him--so far as the public is concerned.

Poet, if you can't grow up, at least grow down. Become a carrot, a parsnip. Even a potato. Let the earth conceal your shame. You mistook the mushrooms in your head for truth. Celebrate the actual beauty of mushrooms. Rejoice in their improbabilities. Accept the shortness of the season. Accept the shortness of your own breath. If you cannot suffer light, learn to engender the dark. The poem as hacking cough, as a croaking in the larynx, as a green discharge from blackened lungs. Poet, if you propose to make poems out of your halloween existence, you must learn to shit pumpkins.

Poetry excites innate emotions and perceptions that let you create a new world where you have never visited and no one else can enter.

Poetry for me is a result of lyrical meditation, pre-verbal in origin, and much of the craft has to do with finding a contemporary diction that embodies, at times subverts but never betrays that pre-verbal lyrical source: the presence of song before it is sung.

Poetry is intimacy between poet and reader. It's revealing your truth and feeling safe acceptance in the unveiling

Poetry is not an art, it's a symptom.

Poetry is the yearning of the soul to break free!

Poetry is when emotion blooms like flowers with the petals of words and spreads the fragrance of perception.

Poetry lets me pour out my various emotions even the suppressed ones we didn't know exist inside us' til the moment you start jotting down what you're feeling. It's more than an escape into the unknown, a refuge for your creativity and sometimes wild imagination not all ordinary, ungifted people like us understand." -Elizabeth's Quotes

[poems are] crystals deposited after the effervescent contact of the spirit with reality. (cristaux deposes apres l'effervescent contact de l'esprit avec la realite)

Poetry contains few words but tells much. Its beauty is that by being condensed it is rich in meaning and open to various interpretations. Unlike prose, there is no boundary to poetry. There is nothing concrete or black and white. Poetry is mutable; it is transformative. Poetry is the alchemy of hearts. And what cannot be said in prose can sometimes be only said through poetry.

Poetry is jealous of you tonight, for as soon as I come to pen a few words, your perfume attacks me in the most civilised manner and I forget myself. I forget the poem. I forget the ...

Poetry magically excites an unknown mysterious emotion.

Poetry emerging from a poet enters into the reader only when it comes within the readers’ 'sphere of intellect.

Poetry is a language that can be read by all, but very few understand it.

Poetry is reality and fantasy in a pretty package It doesn’t always have to make sense, it just has to make magic.

Poetry is what you turn to when nothing else works.

Poets write for an audience. And when the audience is soulful and sensitive to understand the nuances and subtleties of poetry then writing and reading the lines of your poetry becomes a pleasure!

Poezija je nekontrolisano ispoljavanje emocija.

Poetry has a long, long memory. After our love is long gone, we will still be reading your poems. You will not be the only one whose heart this breaks. Know that we will stand , reading the words written about our love – and we will ache for you The body will remember the way you shifted and sighed as skin met skin and those words will pay tribute to the lines that were composed while we moved through this world together. Because of this, we will never truly forget you. Let us remember.

Poets soar on the wings of hope.

Poets, you always write about women worth dying for. Write, for a change, something about the ones worth living for!

Precisamente "rondar las cosas por el otro lado" es lo que diferencia al poeta del científico o del político, quienes, por el contrario, prefieren tenerlas siempre de frente, muy de frente.

Question not, but live and labour Till yon goal be won, Helping every feeble neighbour, Seeking help from none; Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone, Kindness in another's trouble, Courage in your own.

Poetry is inspired by the elements of random thoughts, an overflow of gazing at the unseen.

Poetry is the articulation of emotion through language.

Poetry is the whispering of a truth by the shouting of the best possible lies

Read the lines as if they were unknown to you, and you will feel in your inmost self how very much they are yours.

Rejection is simply redirection to the greatness awaiting for you.

Remember that good poets too can write bad poems! Talent has also a talent to be untalented!

Reminiscent of a diamond, she is gifted, privileged, and positioned to glisten.

Poetry is and should not be explained It’s not a theory not a formula or a set pattern It’s a labyrinth of reflection with no source of image

Poetry is a storm asking peace to dance with her.

Ritual Version —for Kate Middleton humself, shamself, hymnself, shameself—. lameself, lambself, numbself, unself—. sing anger, goddess, of—. many devices—. sing anger godless—. tell me who—. sacred in the sea suffered so many woes—. bookshelf, doubtshelf, debtshelf, riftshelf—. driftshelf, truthshelf, foolshelf, rueshelf—. sing less the many souls sent—. they perished—. sing spoils for the dogs—. who swallowed down the foolish song—. the soul and its companions—. nounself, nonceself, nonself, lashself—. ashself, lawself, thoughtself, aughtself—. tell me, muse, from any point—. and birds—. sing less the wrath of—. a man’s cleverness—. tell also us—. of recklessness—. of home—.

Rim are there horizons where there is no horizontal where mountains fold space, hold distance up? embedded in a canyon our heads tilt instinctively. here earth meets sky, we can reach it; the rim does not shimmer and recede. we lean into diagonal lives, relieved of right angles eyes, arms, hearts drawn upward, vectored to ridgelines keenly aware of the slant of time, its shape and substance; it is a wedge; it moves along ray-stroked slopes; we pass into it, are passed over.

ROSEMARY Beauty and Beauty’s son and rosemary— Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly— born of the sea supposedly, at Christmas each, in company, braids a garland of festivity. Not always rosemary— since the flight to Egypt, blooming differently. With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath, its flowers—white originally— turned blue. The herb of memory, imitating the blue robe of Mary, is not too legendary to flower both as symbol and as pungency. Springing from stones beside the sea, the height of Christ when thirty-three— it feeds on dew and to the bee “hath a dumb language”; is in reality a kind of Christmas-tree.

Romance her, enhance her, desire her, put her first.

Say you could view a time-lapse film of our planet: what would you see? Transparent images moving through light, “an infinite storm of beauty.” The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth’s face through only random patches of clarity. The land shudders and splits, like pack ice rent by a widening lead. Mountains burst up, jutting and dull and soften before your eyes, clothed in forests like felt. The ice rolls up, grinding green land under water forever; the ice rolls back. Forests erupt and disappear like fairy rings. The ice rolls up-mountains are mowed into lakes, land rises wet from the sea like a surfacing whale- the ice rolls back. A blue-green streaks the highest ridges, a yellow-green spreads from the south like a wave up a strand. A red dye seems to leak from the north down the ridges and into the valleys, seeping south; a white follows the red, then yellow-green washes north, then red spreads again, then white, over and over, making patterns of color too swift and intricate to follow. Slow the film. You see dust storms, locusts, floods, in dizzying flash frames. Zero in on a well-watered shore and see smoke from fires drifting. Stone cities rise, spread, and then crumble, like patches of alpine blossoms that flourish for a day an inch above the permafrost, that iced earth no root can suck, and wither in a hour. New cities appear, and rivers sift silt onto their rooftops; more cities emerge and spread in lobes like lichen on rock. The great human figures of history, those intricate, spirited tissues that roamed the earth’s surface, are a wavering blur whose split second in the light was too brief an exposure to yield any images. The great herds of caribou pour into the valleys and trickle back, and pour, a brown fluid. Slow it down more, come closer still. A dot appears, like a flesh-flake. It swells like a balloon; it moves, circles, slows, and vanishes. This is your life.

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SECRET SMILE End your day with a secret smile on your face.

Seduction is an art known only to the best of the artistes.