Best 1314 quotes in «poet quotes» category

Approaching the Start of Civil Exams Perhaps I was once a young Chinese scholar approaching the start of civil exams, my mind grown weary and sad from seclusion with books on syntax and poetic style. All that I knew were the mist-covered mountains and sweet white blossoms of mountain apples that grew in the valleys of my province. But I had been gone over six years busy with studies in the Heavenly City empty and thin despite my work. I showed my verses to an older poet who told me a truth I longed to believe: all knowledge is futile and barren which does not open the love of your friends.

A reader cannot take poetry by expanding it beyond his/her consciousness, rather can take by shrinking it within.

Are you sure this is the world? I think there's something wrong with it

Are you just a car salesman or are you a poet too?” “I've never been accused of poetry before.

Art it's the most powerful sound of poets, dreamers and revolutionaries.

As a poet there is something about joy I find hard to express, whereas every other emotion is rather simple. For instance, you never feel so bad that you can't describe how bad you feel, but joy on the other hand is far too divine for human language.

As a poet I hold the most archaic values on earth. They go back to the Neolithic: the fertility of the soil, the magic of animals, the power-vision in solitude, the terrifying initiation and rebirth, the love and ecstasy of the dance, the common work of the tribe.

As a writer, a poet, you’re not alone in wanting to be alone. Your work is a friendship that never leaves you.

As I read you I fell in love with the holes between your words and I loved you most on the days you could not love yourself.

A smile, like the poet's muse, Inspires passion in the lover's heart

As the poets for the most part had their share of scholarship, it gave rise to a curious struggle between their natural inclination and their imaginary duty. When they sacrificed to the latter, they were praised by the learned; but by yielding to the former, they became the favourites of the people.

A true artist does not ever stop creating art!

At one time I was weary of verse writing, and wanted to give it up. At another time I was determined to be a poet until I could establish a proud name over others. The alternatives battled in my mind and made my life restless.

A torpid heart in agony needs a pen to bleed

A true poet writes from the language and experiences of their own heart, not those of others.

Beneath heaven’s vault remember always walking through halls of cloud down aisles of sunlight or through high hedges of the green rain walk in the world highheeled with swirl of cape hand at the swordhilt of your pride Keep a tall throat Remain aghast at life Enter each day as upon a stage lighted and waiting for your step Crave upward as flame have keenness in the nostril Give your eyes to agony or rapture Train your hands as birds to be brooding or nimble Move your body as the horses sweeping on slender hooves over crag and prairie with fleeing manes and aloofness of their limbs Take earth for your own large room and the floor of the earth carpeted with sunlight and hung round with silver wind for your dancing place

A Writer in Love. I was just a word weaver What did I know of love? Only that Some days when the words weren’t enough, I knew I was in love.

Being poet is my choiceless choice.

Beneath it all I kept faith with Ithaca, travelled, Travelled and travelled, Suffering much, enjoying a little; Met strange people singing New myths; made myths myself. But this lion of the sea Salt-maned, scaly, wondrous of tail, Touched with power, insistent On this brief promontory... Puzzles.

A writer lives. The task of being a poet is not completed at a fixed schedule. No one is a poet from eight to twelve and from two to six. Whoever is a poet is one always, and continually assaulted by poetry.

BY DISPOSITION OF ANGELS Messengers much like ourselves? Explain it. Steadfastness the darkness makes explicit? Something heard most clearly when not near it? Above particularities, these unparticularities praise cannot violate. One has seen, in such steadiness never deflected, how by darkness a star is perfected. Star that does not ask me if I see it? Fir that would not wish me to uproot it? Speech that does not ask me if I hear it? Mysteries expound mysteries. Steadier than steady, star dazzling me, live and elate, no need to say, how like some we have known; too like her, too like him, and a-quiver forever.

Be brave, be forever.

Be calm...calm as a calm lagoon, then you will look beautiful as a beautiful calm lagoon crowned by the Moon and sheltered by the brilliance of the stars reclaiming your royalty of regal life...

Because I have an ideal to live up to. And I can't fall down in my own eyes!

Being poet is my choicesless choice.

Yes, it’s tough, it’s tough, that goes without saying. But isn’t waiting itself and longing a wonder, being played on by wind, sun, and shade?

Birds are the eyes of Heaven.

By(e) pen, I've tried my hand at poetry; only to see how boring it is to me. That is, unless I get a chance to destroy each and every piece while doing it as I please.

But at least he had grasped one small aspect of poetry then: that it was something extremely personal, almost a gift one wrapped up for oneself alone; that it was foolish to expect everyone to respond to poetry in the same way, or even to respond at all. Not a gift, it was a beautiful burden. It was a melancholy art, and what it served for best was to provide life with a certain aptitude for sadness.

This is what I had come for, just this, and nothing more. A fling of leafy motion on the cliffs, the assault of real things, living and still, with shapes and powers under the sky- this is my city, my culture, and all the world I need.

BUNAHAN When the last speaker of Boro falls silent, who will notice the first-grown feather of a bird’s wing? (gansuthi) or feel how far pretending to love (onsay) is from loving for the last time (onsra)? Quiet and uneasy, in an unfamiliar place (asusu) no one sees her, or listens; there is less of her than there was. The last speaker feels Boro’s world fall apart, knowledge unravels: healing plants go unseen; the bodies of animals are unreadable. With a last thought, onguboy (to love it all, from the heart), she leaves fragments of the world she held in place. We touch their husks, about to speak and about not to speak (bunhan, bunahan); awash in loss, incomplete. Note: The italicized words are from Boro, an endangered language still spoken in parts of northern India. For more on this story, see Mark Abley’s Spoken Here: Travels Among Threatened Languages.

City of Vassillian a party of five sage princes with four horses. The princes, who are of course brave, noble and wise, travel widely in distant lands, fight giant ogres, pursue exotic philosophies, take tea with weird gods and rescue beautiful monsters from ravening princesses before finally announcing that they have achieved enlightenment and that their wanderings are therefore accomplished. The second, and much longer, part of each song would then tell of all their bickerings about which one of them is going to have to walk back. All this lay in the planet’s remote past.

Carol looked at her. "How do you become a poet?" "By feeling things - too much, I suppose," Therese answered conscientiously.

Dance less in motion and more in spirit; awaken the dreamer within.

...Cody is furiously explaining to his little son Tim 'Never let the right hand know what your left hand is doing'... Page 100.

Darling, I am an insane poet I could have killed For much less Than this; But instead I chose To write This poem

Cosmos and its stars; poet and his poetry!

Creation of a pregnant imagination.

Darling, Never trust the words of a poet But hold onto his heart As he holds onto yours

Dear Gris, if there's one thing I can't abide it's a bad poet.

Dance resides within us all. Some find it when joy conquers sorrow, others express it through celebration of movements; and then there are those... whose existence is dance,

Despair is a night without lights. Dreams are the sunrise that leads you out of the darkness.

Democracy is only as moral and just as those in power, and only as wise as the citizens who elect them.

Destiny never defames herself but when she lets an excellent poet die.

Destruction wasn't when you chose to destroy me. It was when i let you.

Di lantai kasih ini kau letakkan takar cinta serpihan permata yang kau kutip dari sela jendela pelangi jejak semalam Nestapa bertingkah lara menggelanggang kota lambaian gerhana redup pohon yang dahulu menyahut pudar dalam lingkarannya saat jemari menggamit senja

Did anyone think this canon of druggie men were out of control? Only in the most admirable of ways! Out of control like a shaman or a space explorer, like a magician sawing himself in half. Out of control like a poet.

Digging deep inside you as a writer will damn near kill you at times. But in the end, your words will be true and undeniable for the reader, and that is all that ever really matters in writing.

Don’t be afraid of your struggles, they are making you dangerously strong and wise. They are preparing you for your superpowers. Let them happen, otherwise you’ll stay in the same damn place you’ve always been, and until you know there is so much more awesomeness in the world and within you, you’ll be content in your tiny cocoon, spinning the same circles day in and day out. Your struggles are transforming you.

Do not think about failure. Remember that even stars fall sometimes, and when they do people wish on them.