Best 254 quotes in «muse quotes» category

In Poems of Love and Light: The Light of The Sun…Our Breath as One, the tenor seems to have changed slightly, as the progression of Love and lovers is, in many cases (if not all) quixotic, dependent upon mutual understanding, the conditions of the moment, the awareness of the future, as well as the mundane life, in which we all must exist, embracing real life, as is the natural state, which sentient individuals traverse – illusion may help those in the ‘moment’, but does nothing for the long-term, except misdirect it. Poetry has always been a way to leave something for those who come after, a legacy of inspiration, methodology, spirit, love, emotion, historical sense and utility, depending upon the subject matter, intentions of the bard, and the situations, which frame the creation of that sense of experience, with which the Poet receives his Muse. Poems of Love and Light: In The Light of the Sun, Our Breath as One

Inspiration is the windfall from hard work and focus. Muses are too unreliable to keep on the payroll.

I remained with Lark in the hospital room until Aaron arrived out of breath from running. “My muse,” he said, taking her hand. Leaving them alone to prepare for the surgery, I walked into the waiting room. Cooper patted the chair next to him and I joined him. “She’ll be okay,” he said, sounding convincing. I didn’t feel like talking, so I texted Dylan, Harlow, Mom, and Dad to let them know what was happening. Cooper spoke quietly on the phone with Farah who was on her way with Tawny. First, Dick and Maryann arrived then Raven not long afterwards with Bailey. “We were shopping when you called,” Bailey announced as Raven hurried to Lark’s room. Joining her brother, Bailey tapped her foot and stared at the door. “How long will it take?” “Patience,” Cooper muttered then returned to talking with Farah. Bailey changed seats, so she was next to me. “Don’t be scared. Pixies are powerful creatures.” Smiling softly, I took Bailey’s hand and waited.

In your arms I come alive... In your arms I drink nectar of life... In your arms I partake love... In your arms I truly live... In your arms I will truly die...

I’ve long considered becoming a writer to be the death of nightmares. For me at least, since I started writing I hadn’t had any. Something really terrible or awful happens in a dream and you wake up and think, awesome, and reach for a pen and paper.

I see it, Jack. Your muse is back. The thing that gave you passion, tormented you, and haunted you is back. You're reeling in ecstasy and dread. It's something you want, but can't ever have. And the one that brings the pain is pure, white as snow... and standing in front of you.

It ain't so easy writing about nothin

I’ve lost a guardian angel and gained a muse.

I sat across the table from him and watched as he popped open the lid. “I gather you like ice cream?” An eyebrow twitched comically. “Snow demon.” He shrugged.

I should’ve probably warned you: once you end a relationship with an artist, you are perpetually reminded of them. They have now ruined classical music and jazz for you. They have ruined books and poetry. You should just forget about galleries and museums. But you know what the worst part is? It’s how they witnessed and observed you, making you feel like the only person in the room. And you secretly loved being looked at, being worshipped. So now you avoid mirrors. Because when you look at yourself, you remember me.

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

I wish to pervade your mind and slowly discover your secrets!

Love is artists' foremost muse.

May the key of inspiration unlock your dungeon of creativity

Muse zu sein ist ein echt beschissener Job. Dein ganzes Leben lang rennst du irgendwelchen Kerlen hinterher, umsorgst sie, hegst und pflegst ihre Talente, und wenn sie dann reich und berühmt sind, lassen sie dich wie 'ne heiße Kartoffel fallen.

Muse is not to be so easily dismissed. She is quite capable of turning your insides to ash before you can draw breath to apologize.

Masochists hold on to broken people. Artists hold on to broken memories.

Musicians do not get on stage without hearing the song singing inside of them. Poets do not write as if they are jotting down a sermon, they see everything in their subconscious before presenting it to the conscious, which they later turn to  readable materials. Artist do not draw and paint without painting in dream states, trance, or see an art form that others do not see. Being creative does not calls for being any supernatural entity, but in creating with the entities inside of you.

My muse is six feet, a hundred and ninety pounds and cradles my soul in his arms without knowing it.

My muse is a restless genie, a conniving devil, a wanton mistress and a fairy godmother. At times he’s Othello’s Iago, at others he’s Clarence from 'It’s a Wonderful Life'.

„…Nur der Künstler kann uns den Spiegel vorhalten. Erfahrungen in eine Geschichte kleiden. Fragen stellen, Antworten geben, unser Dasein erleichtern. Uns sagen, wie das ist, ein Mensch zu sein auf diesem Planeten; hier zu leben, zu sterben oder jemanden sterben zu sehen. Was es heißt, glücklich zu sein. Ohne Kunst kein Leben.

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —

Never durst a poet touch a pen to write Until his ink was tempered with love's sighs.

NO MUSE IS GOOD MUSE To be an Artist you need talent, as well as a wife who washes the socks and the children, and returns phone calls and library books and types. In other words, the reason there are so many more Men Geniuses than Women Geniuses is not Genius. It is because Hemingway never joined the P.T.A. And Arthur Rubinstein ignored Halloween. Do you think Portnoy's creator sits through children's theater matinees--on Saturdays? Or that Norman Mailer faced 'driver's ed' failure, chicken pox or chipped teeth? Fitzgerald's night was so tender because the fender his teen-ager dented happened when Papa was at a story conference. Since Picasso does the painting, Mrs. Picasso did the toilet training. And if Saul Bellow, National Book Award winner, invited thirty-three for Thanksgiving Day dinner, I'll bet he had help. I'm sure Henry Moore was never a Cub Scout leader, and Leonard Bernstein never instructed a tricycler On becoming a bicycler just before he conducted. Tell me again my anatomy is not necessarily my destiny, tell me my hang-up is a personal and not a universal quandary, and I'll tell you no muse is a good muse unless she also helps with the laundry.

Often the inspiration to write music comes from the voices in your head. You’re not crazy. Just be thankful they are not making you rescue people in 20-degree weather at 2:30 in the morning in the forest.

My theory is you shouldn't apologize for believing in an idea-channeling muse. You should just be sure to feed her.

Never fails. Every new book I write seems impossible, writes like I'm typing from dictation, edits like I didn't write it, and finishes like I couldn't possibly have written it.

Not all moments can be between two people. Some moments are between two souls!

Now the poet has to embrace his destined sadness in life,by entering into this ecstatic world of imagination to unroll the heart secrets with his muse,and to happily fulfill her musky moist dreams of Romance.

Often the Muse will not respond to direct and logical requests. She must be lured in with the playful and gentle.

Oh my sweet muse tell me what do I do on such romantic full-moon nights! You inflame my passion, and the moon serenades my obsession!

O' melancholy,hectic chill for human soul,herewith dismal presence,any spirit does descent.

Once or twice, at night, he planted himself in front of the type-writer, trying to get back to the book he'd come to New York to write. It was supposed to be about America, and freedom, and the kinship of time to pain, but in order to write about these things, he'd needed experience. Well, be careful what you wish for. For now all he seemed capable of producing was a string of sentences starting, Here was William. Here was William's courage, for example. And here was William's sadness, smallness of stature, size of hands. Here was his laugh in a dark movie theater, his unpunk love of the films of Woody Allen, not for any of the obvious ways they flattered his sensibility, but for something he called their tragic sense, which he compared to Chekhov's (whom Mercer knew he had not read). Here was the way he never asked Mercer about his work; the way he never talked about his own and yet seemed to carry it with him just beneath the skin; the way his skin looked in the sodium light from outside with the light off, with clothes off, in silver rain; the way he embodied qualities Mercer wanted to have, but without ruining them by wanting to have them; the way his genius overflowed its vessel, running off into the drain; the unfinished self-portrait; the hint of some trauma in his past, like the war a shell-shocked town never talks about; his terrible taste in friends; his complete lack of discipline; the inborn incapacity for certain basic things that made you want to mother him, fuck him, give your right and left arms for him, this man-child, this skinny American; and finally his wildness, his refusal to be imaginable by anyone.

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!

One must give himself completely to his art and not hold back. Throw caution to the wind. Embrace the muse. Make love to your art.

One day she asked me: "Is this love?" I said: "If this is not love, then love is nothing!

One significant development with regards to these muses of modern-day art is that the gender roles that were used in the past are no longer valid. The days where the women were the ones who solely inspired the men are no longer as both men and women alike are able to make efforts to create music and other forms of art.

Outline of your frame My paper witness your silhouette Sipping in coffee My muse, my Juliet. Afternoon spent, In hungry desires Ending with a kiss On your coffee lips.

People are dying out there, and I’m not faring much better.” “Worrying about the demise of anonymous people won’t bring them back.” Pursing my lips, I planted a hand on a hip. “How very demon of you.” “Thank you.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” ~ Muse & Akil

Poetry Is The Language Of Mysticism & Discourse. It Is The Whisper In The Dark, The Shadow In The Light. Poetry Is An Incantation From The Depths Of Your Very Soul.

Secrets are a part of life. Their mysteries make our world beautiful. Their depths inspire our hearts, intrigue our minds, and embrace our very souls.

Second chances come when we least expect them.

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—.

She gave me hugs that were like oxygen to a dying man and uplifted my soul!

She cured me of my sadness.

She is a beautiful muse. She cares for me and nurtures our bond. And when she is in my life then I feel an unknown happiness and an unusual serenity. This bond has been strong for a long time by now. And I feel a victory each time when she wins in life.

She is my intoxication!

She is the fragrance of a dozen jasmines.

She loved me deeply, madly and passionately. She knew no other way!

She said "Go ahead and ruin me!" And my pen made her into a story!