Best 1314 quotes in «poet quotes» category

I wonder if you ever read my poems and wish they were written for you.

I wonder what became of you, your Johnny Rotten skin, no Emerald City eyes. You'd have been a beauty if you let inferiority steam your glasses with its candor, sans laughter.

Love doesn’t make you a poet; it makes you poetry.

Lines The lightning struck him and left a scar. The wind stopped blowing and the wheat stood up. Self-tensed self, who is this I that says I ? I had a scar in the shape of  lightning That split in half when I opened my mouth. The sun  just a circle of  heat in the sky Throwing absence in the shape of clouds Down on the field. Another life placed In the middle of  the life I called my own. A lesser god commanded the front: return. A little god knocked about in the germ. The third person put me outside my own sphere. A small god chanting lightning in the synapse. Wind blows the wheat down. He calls it prayer.

Love is like a magic trick You know you are getting fooled, but still, you stand in line And pay to see it again and again.

Live for everything, or die for nothing

Love is not leaning on each other, adjusting to fit a different size. Love is simply two hands reached out in the darkness, saying; I’ll be your light, if you’ll be mine.

Love is that unspoken feeling which when felt, makes you a poet, a singer, a dreamer.

Love has turned many into poets; pain has turned many into artists; charity has turned many into pacifists, and anger has turned many into activists.

Love is wind for the soul

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover and the poet Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt: The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.

Lovers dream of one more embrace. One more kiss. One act of love, no matter how small. For in loving, lover and beloved emptied themselves. Now, they look for their oasis like men engulfed in flames. Even filled to the brim, they will never satiate. For they continue to leak, these cracked vessels. How else did love seep through?

Love withers but never dies. Its tendrils are embedded on fecund soil awaiting the nourishing spring to make it sprout once more.

Many women have tried to compare to you, but they are only flawed imitations. You deserve the worlds admiration.

Master the art of selflove and you will never have to seek validation ever again.

Mataku merenung alam. Menunggu datangnya syair

May I discard the outer cover of time from the layers of poetry by immersing the poet in its entirety within me

Medicinal Spirit, Inside Mirror Therapy becomes a harmony, and that harmony is built on levels, No one knows how to upscale another, for it has to come from the inside grails, Striking inflicts at the mirror and hatred to the being of creator, Causes hate in mirror too and abused flesh to the author, Changes come from its prudence and rationalism liberation, Not its pardon, A mirror is but a substance of a conscious, But identity says "let me fly" when journeying from the subconscious to the conscious.

Most of us carry at least a weak sense of a correlation between poetry and human possibility that cannot be realized by poems. The poet, by his very claim to be a maker of poems, is therefore both an embarrassment and accusation.

Muse’s creations are predominately lyrical often resulting in poetic sonnets and fairytale like art.

Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: 'Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy

My girl was mad and I loved her. Upon a night, she read my poetry; and kissing me madly she cried, ‘You are a genius, my love!’ To which I replied, ‘My girl,’ whispering, ‘Every doctor in this land with a prescription pad is more of a genius than I.

My heart's scripture tastes foreign in the mouths of cowards and on the tongues of those who have never breathed in the moon and breathed out the world.

My words are my children. I am eternally grateful to the womb of my mind for conceiving them.

My writing, it’s my way of making sense of everything. My way to feel whole. May I never be complete and may I never feel content – please, let me always have the need, always have the urge to write.

Man cannot live without oxygen, The poets cannot live without love!

My biggest fear is forgetting why I fell in love with writing. My biggest dream is never allowing that to happen.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

My highest aspiration in life is to serve as the Limerick Laureate of Nantucket.

My wife is a thief... She takes the last cookie Takes forever to get ready She takes her time in the shower Takes all of the hot water She takes my favorite seat on the couch Takes the high road when I lose control My wife is a thief... She took my last name Took the time to get to know me, love me She took the back seat and let me lead Took on motherhood and the emotional toll that it brings She took care of me the many times that I've gotten sick Took on the pain of pregnancy so that the Jackson legacy would live on My wife takes, and takes, and takes... I'm so proud of my perpetual thief who stole my heart and won't give it back.

Nations conquered and true love prevails, all encompassed in a poets tale.

Nights; are belong to the universe that speaks about an unspoken feelings into a poetry.

NIGHT TIME PASSIONS My tongue remembers your name. It whispers it to itself at night, thinking I am asleep, not realising its linguistic dance is keeping me from slumber. My tongue remembers your taste too, but keeps those wet memories to itself, no matter how much I ask.

No poet is ever really young... Their delicate ears always hear the far-off whisper of death, which coarser souls must travel towards for years before their duller senses touch....

Not a lawyer but carries within him the debris of a poet.

Nothing fills the world quite as poetry does. A poet need not dwell on the pagecount of his life.

No thought is a stupid thought, those who are thoughtless are thought of as stupid.

Now is not the time for bigots and racists. No time for sexists and homophobes. Now, more than ever, is the time for ARTISTS. It’s time for us to rise above and to create. To show humanity. To spread hope. We must prevent society from destroying itself, from losing its way. Now is the time for love.

Now winter nights enlarge This number of their hours; And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o’erflow with wine, Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep’s leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense With lovers’ long discourse; Much speech hath some defense, Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well: Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys They shorten tedious nights.

October I sit with braided fingers and closed eyes in a span of late sunlight. The spokes are closing. It is fall: warm milk of light, though from an aging breast. I do not mean to pray. The posture for thanks or supplication is the same as for weariness or relief. But I am glad for the luck of light. Surely it is godly, that it makes all things begin, and appear, and become actual to each other. Light that’s sucked into the eye, warming the brain with wires of color.

O Heavenly Children, God's messengers are as limitless as the fish in the sea. They come in all colors, regions, languages and creeds. But their message is one and the same, don't you see? He only wishes to unite all His children under one family tree.

Old soul. Poet's heart. Warriors mind.

Once There was a quiet island, With a name. You must believe me When I say that sunlight, Impure but beautiful, Broke upon the bay, silvered The unrepentant, burning moon.

O Heavenly Children, do not forget that God is here, there and everywhere. The birds are his eyes and the air is his ears. And as you sleep, your heart and soul rest naked before him. He can drink from the rivers of your thoughts, and even feel the wetness of your tears.

Music does not need language of words for it has movements of dance to do its translation.

One has to commit a painting,' said Degas, 'the way one commits a crime.

One day I shall leave the world, And if you feel like remembering me- Search me not in my ashes, In my words, you can rummage me!

One may never get to know how fast the time travels till the one gets in that position to race against the time.

One does not become a poet by uttering beautiful words. One becomes a poet by pouring their soul as wine into the Cup of Love.

ONLY TODAY Yesterday can no longer be touched. Tomorrow is out of your reach. So live today, only today.