Best 1314 quotes in «poet quotes» category

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

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

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

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.

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?

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.

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 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 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 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!

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

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 .

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

Totality of Spheres excerpt : Far-night comes our consummation in time star shapes in separate lakes the you-sheen : Rag to wipe down the child’s mercury brow blood-heat doesn’t end it begins our work : Egret at pond’s edge of mind vague regret of venus holding an apple holding her breath : Lust wants what wound it can find heals the harm by balming the blade : Himself he says to himself the trembling king creates a cloud to hide away the hours : Rhyme in a ring undoes into child’s song time’s titan rule a no-atom-bell resounding : Obit of the discarded orders or truth suffers into oblivion or the fact wears a shroud : Lain down at long last the bones beauty wore inside herself on ocean bed lovely : Sings in the outermost undergrove shadowwaste soulspent worldwant some form or art : Your word some angel I guess some cherub embroidered on the veil that note : Word sewn on the love veil solar sail star primer tone tome tomb the readerless name

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))))

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

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.

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!

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

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 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!

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 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?

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 were never a match; always a marvelous misfit.

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.