Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

A solitary sorceress: her shadow is still visible on the eve of the new moon.

A SON’S PRAYER Oh dear God, help my dad every day he sure needs it

As she left the cold arena Angel had to laugh, Beaten by that of a wisp girl and her subliming cunning craft. —Jove lay silent in his orbit; brooding, deep, dreamless forweep, And faithful dog Sirius rising tracked behind on dusk’s purpling adeep. Scratched he his chin; counted the cold and early evening stars, He had miles to go that night, they being so very far. Only the music of the wint’ring span, Vanished he away in the shimmering land. . . . . . .

As she bends for a Kleenex in the dark, I am thinking of other girls: the girl I loved who fell in love with a lion--she lost her head over it--we just necked a lot; of the girl who fell in love with the tightrope, got addicted to getting high wired and nothing else was enough; all the beautiful, damaged women who have come through my life and I wonder what would have happened if I'd met them sooner, what they were like before they were so badly wounded. All this time I thought I'd been kissing, but maybe I'm always doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, kissing dead girls in hopes that the heart will start again. Where there's breath, I've heard, there's hope.

A star needs a star.

A steampunk nation Baby pollution rises up then the loving comes arraigning 'cause Our art's official and only partially artificial And our heart's in the middle of sharp hardened shards of metal but There's not where it settles Because it's beating to the steaming of God's hottest pot or kettle And now we face it, this creation we made to To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation In our steampunk nation Our steampunk nation

As the sky prepares to settle its tired, aching feet into the night’s velvet slippers I settle, into my armchair, soaking the teabag, of my thoughts, into warm liquidy stars.

As thou know not what is the way of the spirit, nor how the bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child: even so thou know not the works of what makes all.

As thou hast said unto thy servant, that thou, which gives life to all, hast given life at once to the creature that thou hast created, and the creature bare it: even so it might now also bear them that now be present at once.

As the river that flows freely, your mind drives me to look at the cages that I have built around me.

A Strange Prayer: Dear Lord, I, the self searching illusion, has seen and experienced the outer world: relationships, success and failure, true friends, strangers and backbiters. I lived the different emotions during different seasons; I witnessed ups & downs, enjoyed love & hate, was good & bad, faced beauty & ugliness. There were times when I was brave, there were times when I was a coward. There were times when I was proactive, there were times when I was indecisive. After, flying high in the skies, and yet being a loser... After, being nothing & no one, and yet feeling content.. I have understood the difference between lust and love, happiness and sadness, selfishness and selflessness. One often leads to another; another secretly carries the one! Yet I am lost between being and becoming. An inner voice admits that my heart is an unexplored realm, my mind is a prisoner to my wishful thinking, and the soul is unknown to me. Setting that unknown free... now, this is my heartiest wish. As Saurabh Sharma, the human being, I always pray to thee, " O lord, set me free. I don't want love, I don't want to be loved; I want myself to be love itself now. That beautiful, silent and divine existence...! I want to get merged into that. Please give me wisdom and courage; Merge me into your supreme kingdom by setting my soul free.

A stranger lies behind my eyes, I know not what he wants; sells me dreams, tells me tales, then with the truth, he haunts.

A strange feeling of loneliness Adrift near the blue canvas You may stare long and listen deep Yet not know whether sea-shore or sea-snore!

As to whether a poem has been written by a great poet or not, this is important only to historians of literature. Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that I have written a beautiful line; let us take this as a working hypothesis. Once I have written it, that line does me no good, because, as I’ve already said, that line came to me from the Holy Ghost, from the subliminal self, or perhaps from some other writer. I often find I am merely quoting something I read some time ago, and then that becomes a rediscovering. Perhaps it is better that a poet should be nameless.

A stranger lies behind my eyes, I know not what he wants; sells me dreams, tells me tales, and with the truth, he then haunts.

Astray from a deep sleep chronic as I write by phonics, like insomnia I will always live the onyx night for revealing, and, upon it, still I'll steal the bright light of day right away just to keep building at speeds hypersonic.

As tree shapes from mist / Her young death / Loose / In you.

As we change, our writing changes too. You cannot write the same poem twice. And that's a good thing.

As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty, we become our choices.

As We Sail By We float Through purple velvet skies Out where, black holes are born And the Milky-Way dies We fly Through purple hazed skies Out where, nebulas fade And an apricot sun spies We coast Through purple blue skies Out where, the platinum moon sits and Supernovas explode as we sail by Excerpt from: Exegesis, a Decade of Poetry, by Mekael © Mekael Shane 2009

...as we are endowed. ...with rhetorics. ...none will deny. ...of innocence. ...towards scribbling. ...of love lines. ...and of lust. ...to what seems like male. ...to what seems like female. ...in those days. ...I mean nothing. ...but in high school. ....even me. ...I can't deny.

As we know, Rilke, under the influence of Auguste Rodin, whom he had assisted between 1905 and 1906 in Meudon as a private secretary, turned away from the art nouveau-like, sensitized-atmospheric poetic approach of his early years to pursue a view of art determined more strongly by the priority of the object. The proto-modern pathos of making way for the object without depicting it in a manner 'true to nature', like that of the old masters, led in Rilke's case to the concept of the thing-poem - and thus to a temporarily convincing new answer to the question of the source of aesthetic and ethical authority. From that point, it would be the things themselves from which all authority would come - or rather: from this respectively current singular thing that turns to me by demanding my full gaze. This is only possible because thing-being would now no longer mean anything but this: having something to say.

As we looking into the history of writing, some fascinating facts immediately emerge that may surprise us a little. We normally consider poetry and drama to be more accomplished and refined than straight-in prose storytelling. Yet about three thousand years before the advent of the modern novel, the most common and most preferred literary forms were poetry and drama. Poetry was first, and drama followed close on its heels. It seems almost that if ancients such as Homer and Aeschylus had something to say, they diligently sought the finest (and most difficult) literary forms with which to say it. It appears that if they had something worth saying, they believed it worth saying well and with great care.

As you approach this stage's final veil, Kingdoms and wealth, substance and water fail; Withdraw into yourself, and one by one Give up the things you own--when this is done, Be still in selflessness and pass beyond All thoughts of good and evil; break this bond, And as it shatters you are worthy of Oblivion, the Nothingness of love.

At a night like this, where it's just me and the yellow moon, I feel complete.

At any moment, you know, your manufactured cool could blow.

...at dawn, the grains of sleep turn to floating black spots, then out of focus the world tilts, and the cat scratches at the door...

A teacher will be frustrated if she is only motivated to teach what she has learned. Yet, if she is motivated because of the students, then she will learn from them how to teach.

At breakfast!' said Louise in an awed voice. 'A man who can read poetry at breakfast would be capable of anything.

at dawn boring holes in the skull bullets

At any time, and under any circumstances of human interest, is it not strange to see how little real hold the objects of the natural world amid which we live can gain on our hearts and minds? We go to Nature for comfort in trouble, and sympathy in joy, only in books. Admiration of those beauties of the inanimate world, which modern poetry so largely and so eloquently describes, is not, even in the best of us, one of the original instincts of our nature.

At a time like this maybe the world is looking at us not just at a miracle crusade or sunday church service but the way we are living. Maybe they want to see whether what our Master left for us worked for us; there is a counter spirit to the spirit of fear, it is the love of God.

At a time when we are spending the majority of our time glued to smartphones and laptops, having a poetry hub to engage with online provides literary relief from endless cat memes and disaster stories. The internet has dissolved the barriers of publishing and the difficulties of having your voice heard, allowing literature to be born straight away on social media. Poems are liked and shared thousands of times on Facebook, showing how poetry continues to resonate and be engaged with even in the digital age.

A thinker builds his castle of thoughts inside a garden of roses and it loses its relevance among the roses. He builds it along the shore and it’s trampled by the fury of waves eventually. He builds it on a cliff high enough and it becomes impregnable but out of reach. Such is the fate of that castle

Athena's jealousy made a monster of fair Medusa. I often wonder what beauty my own demons have destroyed.

A thing about poetry is, It takes cuts and pain to bleed words. The deeper the wound is, the more you bleed. And eventually, you will start falling in love with it. But the saddest part is, sometimes there comes a moment when you start to feel that all those wounds on your soul are not enough. And you start cutting yourself deeper, forgetting when to stop.

A thing is never untold, It is always misperceived.

at home the bookshelves connected heaven and earth.

A thousand faces I saw in you.

a think I would not be here today without the strength given by certain friendships meet to reassemble me I look at the present at this insant and very patient of day clement an exit and always in the part and life reacts to your mind positive and creative stay magical, stay true.

A third of thee dumbfounded, 33 degrees of masonry which are the controllers of mastery. Stone on top of stone, carry the U.S on my back as I travel through Rome. It's God & I on my own,I ask for wisdom and wisdom is shown. What I have is common with Solomon is the position I take on this throne. Ancient ancestry of modern day slavery, there are thousands hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root with bravery.

A thousand lifetimes I'd exchange if only I could have one with you.

...at morning, I'm unruffled - I'll sit with my tea and Muse Cat beside me and listen to the soft chime of the grandfather clock...

Atlantis People would whisper about us And our fall from grace As our world fell to ruin And our worst fears were realized, We’d be submerged and forgotten The stuff of speculation. Legend at best, We were a lost city, Singing our siren ballads Of heartbreak and woe From the depths below, We were here! We were here. We were here…

at man’s height the mouth utters its cries, tosses forth its oracles, gives vent to its puns. To allow words to come to life, bare themselves, and show us by chance, for the space of a lightning bolt bony with dice, a few of our reasons for living and dying

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.

ATOP THE STORK PAVILION LOOKOUT From the pavilion one sees the sun setting behind the mountains, Unrelentingly toward the sea the Yellow River flows; In order to see thousands of miles further afield, To a higher level one must go.

A tired man lay down his head in a dusty room so dim, and for so long his wife did shake and yell to waken him. Meanwhile his thoughts, his dreams, did stir of sandy, red bullfights, of powder-blasts in the air and carnival delights. Yet still his wife was in despair in a dusty room so dim, for she knew death was a whore not far from tempting him.

At Night on the High Seas At night, when the sea cradles me And the pale star gleam Lies down on its broad waves, Then I free myself wholly From all activity and all the love And stand silent and breathe purely, Alone, alone cradled by the sea That lies there, cold and silent, with a thousand lights. Then I have to think of my friends And my gaze sinks into their eyes, And I ask each one, silent and alone: "Are you still mine? Is my sorrow a sorrow to you, my death a death? Do you feel from my love, my grief, Just a breath, just an echo?" And the sea peacefully gazes back, silent, And smiles: NO And no greetings and no answers come from anywhere.

A true poet is one who can appreciate the disciplines and structures of any and all styles of poetry.