Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

The truth is the object of our lust But the light is still so very dim…

The truth is sometimes you can both do better.

The truth is that, just as in the other imitative arts one imitation is always of one thing, so in poetry the story, as an imitation of action, must represent one action, a complete whole, with its several incidents so closely connected that the transposal or withdrawal of any one of them will disjoin and dislocate the whole. For that which makes no perceptible difference by its presence or absence is no real part of the whole.

The truth is that I need the stimulus of other people. Alone, over my dead fire, I tend to see the thin places in my own stories. The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely, imagining. He would not integrate, as I do. He would not have this devastating sense of grey ashes in a burnt-out grate.

The truth is there isn’t anything to me at all. All I know is that I can’t sleep well, I can’t dream well and I’m quite in love with you. That’s all there is to me. My greatest feature is my admiration for you. I know it’s not healthy. Like my insomnia. Like my dreamless nights. You make living alright. My nightmares come when I think of a night without Valeria. That’s when I realise you’re dead. That’s when I remember you’ve been gone for years. That’s when I remember I’m awake. And I wait for this dream called Life to leave me to my peace once and for all and forever.

The truths of the one subject have already been discovered, but have not been accepted because they spell the death of the faith in the lie.

The two of us, two lost keys of the different doors, once strangers and now a souvenir of pain.

The U.K. should begin with an F And have a C after the U, And it should end in E D Now that we’ve left the E.U.

The truth, the all moving magic, the single handed spark of it all was I found art. And this saved my life.

The Type Everyone needs a place. It shouldn't be inside of someone else. -Richard Siken If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at, you can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands. Or windows. Or mirrors. Let them see what a woman looks like. They may not have ever seen one before. If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch, you can let them touch you. Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for. Sometimes it is a bottle. A door. A sandwich. A Pulitzer. Another woman. But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian. Or a muse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack. You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and nerves. Hair and sweat. You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses. If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold, you can let them hold you. All day they practice keeping their bodies upright-- even after all this evolving, it still feels unnatural, still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine. Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you, admit they do not have the answers they thought they would have by now; some men will want to hold you like The Answer. You are not The Answer. You are not the problem. You are not the poem or the punchline or the riddle or the joke. Woman. If you grow up the type men want to love, You can let them love you. Being loved is not the same thing as loving. When you fall in love, it is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping. It is realizing you have hands. It is reaching for the tightrope when the crowds have all gone home. Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt. If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, you learn to sing along. It is hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty. Forgive yourself for the decisions you have made, the ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night. And know this: Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours. Let the statues crumble. You have always been the place. You are a woman who can build it yourself. You were born to build.

The unity in diversity lies only in your heart.

The universe is God's son.

The urgent warnings: The dreamy terror of certain summer mornings.

The universe on your skin is empty from all the silence on your tongue. Forgive yourself. Let your body heal from all the wounds you did not inflict on yourself. Drop the sword you carry on your shoulder for self-defense. Lower the armor you hold high up for protection. Those who harmed you are not going to come back. Those who have left never intended to return.

The Vagabond Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river - There's the life for a man like me, There's the life for ever. Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me. Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field - Warm the fireside haven - Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even! Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around, And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me.

The vastest things are those we may not learn. We are not taught to die, nor to be born, Nor how to burn With love. How pitiful is our enforced return To those small things we are the masters of.

The very conventions of poetry were devised to encode experience, to make it less obvious and thereby more true. To make a metaphor, after all, is to describe something in terms of what it is not, the better to apprehend what it is.

The very essence of I is being killed by You.

The Valkyrie’s heart was wrought of dazzling gold full of the most finest and firmest of loves, this being the secret of her many moods and akimbo inspirangular mercies. —On Kari, Ch. Fifteen Valley of the Damned

The verses are eternal, darling, But I am not

The voices in my head are never meant to be silenced, they are always meant to be listened to, embraced and turned into something so fascinating such as poetry

The view of the highway was so bad that you could not even see the next viaduct. Te moment it loomed out of the mist it disappeared again, as if the world created itself and was blotted out again.

The way through the world Is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

The was her magic, she could still see the sunset even on those darkest days.

The way destiny forgot To etch home on her palms, The broken compass Also forgot to point towards north.

The way the words say what I mean, how they twist and turn language, how they connect with people. How they build community.

The way we are living, timorous or bold, will have been our life.

The way you walked away The way you stopped and waited All that time What was in your heart? A laugh? A sarcasm? Couldn't we be lovers? Though we have never walked together

The weatherman is always as honest as he is vague.

The weather was clear, the track fast War Admiral broke first and finished last.

THE WEATHER OF LOVE Love Has a way of wilting Or blossoming At the strangest, Most unpredictable hour. This is how love is, An uncontrollable beast In the form of a flower. The sun does not always shine on it. Nor does the rain always pour on it Nor should it always get beaten by a storm. Love does not always emit the sweetest scents, And sometimes it can sting with its thorns. Water it. Give it plenty of sunlight. Nurture it, And the flower of love will Outlive you. Neglect it or keep dissecting it, And its petals will quickly curl up and die. This is how love is, Perfection is a delusional vision. So love the person who loves you Unconditionally, And abandon the one Who only loves you Under favorable Conditions.

The weight of wait.

The Weaver My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me; I cannot choose the colors He worketh steadily. Oft times He weaveth sorrow And I, in foolish pride, Forget He sees the upper, And I the underside. Not til the loom is silent And the shuttles cease to fly, Shall God unroll the canvas And explain the reason why. The dark threads are as needful In the Weaver's skillful hand, As the threads of gold and silver In the pattern He has planned.

The whole universe came together to consummate a wonderful soul, you.

The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look, look at all the history, that house on the hill there is over two hundred years old, ' as she points out the window past me into what she has been taught. I have learned little more about American history during my few days back East than what I expected and far less of what we should all know of the tribal stories whose architecture is 15,000 years older than the corners of the house that sits museumed on the hill. 'Walden Pond, ' the woman on the train asks, 'Did you see Walden Pond? ' and I don't have a cruel enough heart to break her own by telling her there are five Walden Ponds on my little reservation out West and at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane, the city I pretended to call my home. 'Listen, ' I could have told her. 'I don't give a shit about Walden. I know the Indians were living stories around that pond before Walden's grandparents were born and before his grandparents' grandparents were born. I'm tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too, because that's redundant. If Don Henley's brothers and sisters and mothers and father hadn't come here in the first place then nothing would need to be saved.' But I didn't say a word to the woman about Walden Pond because she smiled so much and seemed delighted that I thought to bring her an orange juice back from the food car. I respect elders of every color. All I really did was eat my tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsi and nod my head whenever the woman pointed out another little piece of her country's history while I, as all Indians have done since this war began, made plans for what I would do and say the next time somebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own.

The Wild Heart wants promises of forever. The Peaceful Soul just wants harmony in the present.

The Wishing Bones A thousand grandmothers ago Pyrrha and Deucalion repopulated the world with rocks, bones of mother Earth, a generation of my ancestors strained from the mud of a drowned planet. But I’m more interested in my earliest grandmothers, their gills and wetness, before they crawled from that blue expanse and learned to carry the sea within them, in their cells, between their cells, in their eyes. The buoyancy of ocean has never left us. It hides in skin’s complex reservoir where we're selectively permeable and our bodies exchange the smallest life. If we had no need to distinguish ourselves from others we’d be missing the skin that defines lovers and enemies and opens itself to both.

The woman carried herself like God worshipped her body. Even the devil will pray for her forgiveness at the holy sight of her.

The Wisdom of Solomon (Carl) They censor words not the things they denote: It would create less of a stir to drop a piece of shit on Grant's tomb than to write it out in white paint. Because people recognize that's what memorials are for–old bums & dogs to shit on.

The wind has toppled the telescope over onto the lawn: So much for stars. Your brief shot at the universe, gone.

...the wind hums low with sweet exultation, sings its lullaby, while you sleep ...

The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore, Are what ten thousand envy and adore: All, all look up, with reverential Awe, At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the Law: While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry-` 'Nothing is sacred now but Villainy' - Epilogue to the Satires, Dialogue I

The winds, the sea, and the moving tides are what they are. If there is wonder and beauty and majesty in them, science will discover these qualities... If there is poetry in my book about the sea, it is not because I deliberately put it there, but because no one could write truthfully about the sea and leave out the poetry.

the wine the sadness and the night

The world and the friends that lived in it are shadows: you alone remain real in this drowsing room.

The words of the true poems give you more than poems, They give you to form for yourself poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, daily life, and everything else, They balance the ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes, They do not seek beauty, they are sought, Forever touching them or close upon them follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick. They prepare for death, yet they are not the finish, but rather the outset, They bring none of his or her terminus or to be content and full, Whom they take they take into space to behold the birth of the stars, to learn one of the meanings, To launch off with absolute faith, to sweep through the ceaseless rings and never be quiet again.

The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only great poets can read the.

The world contained in a seed, Determined by its program.

The world badly needs a “Great Arranger” putting everything in perfect order, where none shall be seen in wretched hunger, without a health care and decent shelter. Why we can order our homes, not our world? Where are all the leaders and the rich lords? Where the bright ones, the holy ones adored? Is it only God who can fix the world?

The world cannot be translated; It can only be dreamed of and touched.