Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Don’t bring confusion to my table. Bring flowers. Bring books. Bring cakes. But leave your indecisiveness behind. My heart is not up for breaking (again) and my time is precious. Don’t waste either on murky thoughts and cloudy thinking.

Don't compare her to sunshine and roses when she's clearly orchids and moonlight.

Don't erect a marble stone upon my grave, Nor a grand monument. Just place a pair of shoes there For someone barefoot to wear.

Don't fall in love with me. I am dissonance. I am always at war with myself – confusing my head with my heart, always retreating into my mind, because I don‘t want to lose.

Don’t find her and lose you. Find her to find you.

Don’t give me those blue eyes please, I’ve already given up on our dreams. Nothing can bring back the times where only memories reside.

Don’t forget to collect the memories on your journey. Remember, if you only focus on your destination, you will miss out on the benefits of the journey.

Don’t forget to raise your voice when their words hurt your soul. Don’t forget to shove, when they try to hush you. If every time you look at yourself, and all that you can see is the ruined mascara, dry lips and burning eyes Girl, that’s the proof for you to pack your bags and leave. If they bury you with the roses and burn you alive with their words Girl, that’s the proof for you to pack your bags and leave. Don’t forget to raise your voice when their words hurt your soul. Don’t forget to shove, when they try to hush you.

Don't fuckin' sleep on yourself

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because I don't know how to say it - a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep. Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart. Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach, may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't LEAVE me for a second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll have gone so far I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Don’t I remember those rustic evenings, now buried under a thick shawl of futile memories when you and I, walked and talked and melted into the lurid nightfall? I do.

Don't kiss me if you're afraid of thunder. My life is a storm.

Don't live each day as if it were your last, for you might break your back and breathe your last. Rather, live as if a hundred days left; oh, not so pressured, of tension bereft. We do work to live, not do live to work; always rushing is not fun but a joke. Live each day not so stressed nor so relaxed; it's in balanced way where joy's at the max.

Don't need a magic carpet to soar or wings to fly. I simply close my eyes and place my soul against the sky.

Don’t read books! Don’t chant poems! When you read books your eyeballs wither away leaving the bare sockets. When you chant poems your heart leaks out slowly with each word. People say reading books is enjoyable. People say chanting poems is fun. But if your lips constantly make a sound like an insect chirping in autumn, you will only turn into a haggard old man. And even if you don’t turn into a haggard old man, it’s annoying for others to have to hear you. It’s so much better to close your eyes, sit in your study, lower the curtains, sweep the floor, burn incense. It’s beautiful to listen to the wind, listen to the rain, take a walk when you feel energetic, and when you’re tired go to sleep.

Don’t rule out magic in ordinary things. Simply open your heart Expand your mind and believe. Magic is all around; it can be felt in raindrops touching your cheeks and seen in rainbows after a storm. Falling in love is also a magical thing.

Don't say it doesn't make sense then tell me you feel your spine curve and chill humps rise all over your skin. That's all the sense it needs to make. That's what it's supposed to do. That's poetry darling; you feel it in your noes, it chills your skin-- poetry speaks to your soul, it burns within.

Don't shrink your standards, link yourself with those who think and ink like you.

Don't scorn your life just because it's not dramatic, or it's impoverished, or it looks dull, or it's workaday. Don't scorn it. It is where poetry is taking place if you've got the sensitivity to see it, if your eyes are open." --Philip Levine, describing what he learned from William Carlos Williams, via NPR

Don’t take away my dignity While patching up my broken dreams

Don't think because you can't affect something at a great level that God can't use you in a great way. David didn't even train one day with the armies but He won the war. He didn't even have a weapon but he killed a giant.

don't think you can ever forget her don't even try she's not going to budge no choice but to grant her space crown her with sky for she is one of the many and she is each of us

Don't think for second you are not a badass warrior. That's precisely your problem, you don't realize how amazingly brilliant and super kickass you are. Your potential is only limited by your mind.

Don't think twice; once is enough. If you have to think again, it will always be a second thought.

Don’t try to present your art by making other people read or hear or see or touch it; make them feel it. Wear your art like your heart on your sleeve and keep it alive by making people feel a little better. Feel a little lighter. Create art in order for yourself to become yourself and let your very existence be your song, your poem, your story. Let your very identity be your book. Let the way people say your name sound like the sweetest melody.

Don't use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.

Don't want a complicated love. Just want you to grab my demons, kiss my madness and run away with me.

don't wait for the man standing in the snow to cut off his arm help him now

Don't worry— you see, to some you are magic.

Don’t write with a pen. Ink tends to give the impression the words shouldn’t be changed. Write with what gives you the most sensual satisfaction. Write in a hard-covered notebook with green lined pages. Green is easy on the eyes. Blank white pages seems to challenge you to create the world before you start writing. It may be true that you, the modern poet, must make the world as you go, but why be reminded of it before you even have one word on the page? Don’t erase. Cross out rapidly and violently, never with slow consideration if you can help it. Start, as some smarty once said, in the middle of things. Play with syntax. Never want to say anything so strongly that you have to give up the option of finding something better – if you have to say it, you will. Read your poem aloud many times. If you don’t enjoy it every time, something may be wrong. If you ask a question, don’t answer it, or answer a question not asked, or defer. (If you can answer the question, to ask it is to waste time). Maximum sentence length: seventeen words. Minimum: One. Don’t be afraid to take emotional possession of words. If you don’t love a few words enough to own them, you will have to be very clever to write a good poem.

Don’t you dare say these times are hollow Just because there are storms raging by. Just lay low on your pillow, Close your eyes and say goodbye To the world that you lived in today. Let your dreams carry you away; You lived a nightmare all through the day, It is time to dream, so don’t delay. You searched for a reason to live, Yes darling, you searched everywhere. You had to push, you had to strive, It is time now to get some air. You searched in all that is outside, It is time now to look inside, Cause that is where you’ll find A reason worth keeping in your mind. These dreams are not an escape, darling, You need time to see past the lies that blind you. It is time for you to start running To those things that are true. So, don’t you dare say these nights are hollow, Just because there are storms raging by. Just lay low on your pillow And lose yourself in this lullaby.

Do set your goal-to move with clarity. Set a goal-that suits your ability. Raise the goal-with your rising energy. Always move with goal-lest you move slowly!

Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes? Or are they invisible rivers that run toward sadness?

Door of passage to the other side, the soul frees itself in stride.

Doubt everything. Doubt everyone. Doubt yourself too. You will find endless possibilities.

Doubt quit stopping by when I started staying out late, dancing in a flood of self assurance discovered when holding your hand.

doves exist, dreamers, and dolls; killers exist, and doves, and doves; haze, dioxin, and days; days exist, days and death; and poems exist; poems, days, death

Down here the layers of earth are comforting like blankets. The soil I think of as time. Below the caliche I sift through sediment from thousands of years. Though the sharp desert light above is another world, its pulse courses through me. When the mastodons and ground sloths roamed, its pulse coursed through me. When the Hohokam in the canyon ground my pods in the stone its pulse coursed through me. When the new gatherers of the desert learn again how to live here, its pulse will course through me. And I say, I will be ready if the drought comes. And I say, go deep into the Earth. And I say, go deep into yourself, go deep and be ready.

Down between the walls Where the iron laws insist The dusky voices echo.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

do you dare to step in- to the vulnerable black, stripped to the soul with human blindness – when the full and weeping moon steps from the shade of a tumult of mountains – when, in the fragrant dim, day's tree stump transforms into some nether-worldly other – when time's skin is thin and you are bared – when there is nothing between you and the Wildest One whose name is your own?

Do you believe in love? Do you believe in hearts of craft, and the shake of the holiness of sorrow and in death you’ll be surprised! do you believe in love? do you believe in truth? do you believe in giving women a heart that is wowed? do you believe in love? do you believe in God? do you believe in hope? do you believe in stars? do you believe in love? do you believe in you? do you believe in life? do you believe in love’s noun?

Do you love me?" I ask. In your hesitation I found my answer.

Do you remember how the sun, set On the occasion, we last conversed? First, it hid behind some lousy clouds As I was uttering my dying words Then, out it came with a shiny glare As I grasped the truth of your beauty ‘Twas nothing but my own reflection To my surprise and curiosity. Now the sun’s told our tale to this town And I heard how it had made you smile So if the thought of me drew a smile Then, I have mastered true lover’s guile

Do you love me?” When I struggle to love myself? “Do you love me?” When I ask you to leave? “Do you love me?” In the moments When I struggle to breathe? “Do you love me?” In those days When I seem to hurt you the most? “Do you love me?” When I feel like a burden? When I act a little weird? When I constantly question you and On the nights, When I just leave without answering?

Do you know where your breakthrough begins? Your breakthrough begins where your excuses ends.

Do you remember…(doesn’t that appear in each of my letters?), do you remember that you spoke of how eagerly you experienced that period when for the first time autumn and winter were to meet you not in the city, but among the trees whose happiness you knew, whose spring and summer rang in your earliest memories and were mingled with everything warm and dear and tender and with the infinitely blissful melancholies of summer evenings and of long, yearning nights of spring. You knew just as much of them as of the dear people in your surroundings, among whom also summer and spring, kindness and happiness were dedicated to you and whose influence held sway above your growing up and maturing, and whose other experiences would touch you only by report and rarely like a shot in the wood of which superstitious folk tell for a long time. But now you were to remain out in the country house that was growing lonely and were to see the beloved trees suffer in the rising wind, and were to see how the dense park is torn apart before the windows and becomes spacious and everywhere, even in very deep places, discloses the sky which, with infinite weariness, lets itself rain and strikes with heavy drops on the aging leaves that are dying in touching humility. And you were to see suffering where until now was only rapture and anticipation, and were to learn to endure dying in the very place where the heart of life had beaten most loudly upon yours. And you were to behave like the grownups who all at once may know everything, yes, who become grown up just because of the fact that even the darkest and saddest things do not have to be hidden from them, that one does not cover up the dead when they enter, nor hide those whose faces are sawed and torn by a sharp pain.” ―from letter to Clara Westhoff Schmargendorf (Sunday, November 18, 1900)

do you see how my limbs s p r e a d when the night slips back into me? this is how i fall in love. ________ homecoming.

Do you see how the sky holds the sun? In a powerful but effortless way that shows off her beauty and strength? That's how a King holds his Queen.

Do you want to come in? Take a deep breath. Everything is about to happen.