Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Power within A wiser woman kin I cannot give her The proper word She is worth so much more She is the one that should be adored

Power means different things to different people. For poets and politicians, words are power. For some, money is power. For most of Earth’s history, weaponry and resources have constituted power. My grandfather always told me—and I believed for many years—that knowledge was power. But the funny thing about power is that no matter what you think it is, or how much you think you have, it’s the people above and all around you who get the final say.

Pressure knocks at my door A clock ticks and demands its due The lava burns from the floor But not in a game like it used to. So little time to figure it all out So many distractions to prevent success I’m in a dark forest with no path or route But this internal fire knows no rest.

PRETENDING TO DROWN The only regret is that I waited longer than a breath to scatter the sun's reflection with my body. New stars burst upon the water when you pulled me in. On the shore, our clothes begged us to be good boys again. Every stick our feet touched a snapping turtle, every shadow a water moccasin. Excuses to swim closer to one another. I sank into the depths to see you as the lake saw you: cut in half by the surface, taut legs kicking, the rest of you sky. Suddenly still, a clear view of what you knew I wanted to see. When I resurfaced, slick grin, knowing glance; you pushed me back under. I pretended to drown, then swallowed you whole.

Pretense cannot sustain blind power.

Prickly When I'm feeling porcupine-y, I get nasty, I get whiny. Stay away or I might stick you. My sharp words are quills to prick you.

Pro-Black posers get paid to expose us & try to rip-out our roots and pollute our culture.

Prince of the Ghetto: They hate me because I'm poor. They despise me because I'm common. They reject me because I fight for the ghetto. Let me tell you about the slums. Let me tell you about the shanties. Let me tell you about the ghetto. Roaches do not bother us. Violence does not frighten us. Reality does not intimidate us. At birth, our portion is pain. At birth, our portion is sorrow. At birth, our portion is death. We see what others do not. We hear what others do not. We feel what others do not. We experience what others do not. We laugh but there is pain in our laughter. We sing but there is distress in our songs. We dance but there is agony in our steps. The world was built on our backs. The world was built on our tears. It was built on our misery. It was built on our blood! We are sons. We are daughters. We are mothers. We are fathers. We are the poor. We are the wretched. We are your problem. We are the ghetto.

Procreation annihilates eternity.

...prose unfolds in time; and time contains both obstacles and revelations. Prose develops, the way characters and situations do. It requires a flow. A poem is an instant, lightning across the sky. Prose is before the storm, the storm, after the storm.

Prose lies its way to the truth

Proof That goldfinches favor yellow blooms is proof that sustenance comes in a form resembling, pleasing, not to be fought for, but found like bearings by a light both given and sought, that singular glow.

Promise me this. When you find yourself in need of inspiration, bypass the roses that will clamor aimlessly for attention. And focus on the souls who have actually 'lived' among the thorns.

Protect your heart from thoughtless people who have no regard for the damage they cause. For they are reckless in their pursuit and hasty in their retreat, taking only what they wanted and leaving you to deal with the aftermath.

Protect me from the fairies wild, Or exchange thee for a stolen child. A debt be paid more than a few, Tempting hunger with fairy stew. A mother’s distraction used as bait, To steal unchristen babes in wait. Malevolent fairies will deceive, Of lower nature and unbelief. An act to reflect the human soul, Will light the darkness of shadow. By living life of higher mind, A changeling thee will never find. In thy cradle a bundle of love, Your child protected by God above." Changelings, Meet the Little People...An Enchanting Adventure

Protesting and dishonoring your debts, duties and obligations give ride to your fall. Give ear as God calls, He's working through me. Substantial evidence of what's happening in todays world in the Bible for everyone to see but all are so blind for your lack of knowledge you suffer never destined to shine.

Pruned my subconscious. Discovered new shoots.

Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

Puisi ialah semesta yang ditangkap lalu diubah secara indah dalam bentuk kata.

Puisipuisiku berlari dalam hujan menuju rindu paling deras; kamu.

Puisi adalah suara sekaligus kaki bagi hati.

Purity is defined by the clearness of the stars

Purity. Serenity... Solitude: What you ought to uphold. But the important thing is whether you believe it.

purple threaded evening. a torn goddess laying on the roof. milk sky. lavender hued moan against hot asphalt. the thickness of evening presses into your throat. polaroids taped to the ceiling. ivy pouring out of the cracks in the wall. i found my courage buried beneath molding books and forgot to lock the door behind me. the old house never forgets. opened my mouth and a dandelion fell out. reached behind my wisdom teeth and found sopping wet seeds. pulled all of my teeth out just to say i could. he drowned himself in a pill bottle and the orange really brought out his demise. lay me down on a bed of ground spices. there’s a song there, i know it. amethyst geode eyes. cracked open. no one saw it coming. october never loved you. the moon still doesn’t understand that.

Pusillanimity: . Such small doors in such tall houses! Do Men live here or Pygmies?

Put a girl in moonlight and tell only truths and every man becomes a poet.

Putting a few words together does not make poetry. A poem has a soul, a heart and an emotion. Even a Haiku is meaningless without a soul.

Que les poètes morts laissent la place aux autres. Et nous pourrions tout de même voir que c'est notre vénération devant ce qui a été déjà fait, si beau et si valable que ce soit, qui nous pétrifie, qui nous stabilise et nous empêche de prendre contact avec la force qui est dessous, que l'on appelle l'énergie pensante, la force vitale, le déterminisme des échanges, les menstrues de la lune ou tout ce qu'on voudra.

question asked the rain your answer

Questions When she asked me out for coffee, I knew she was different. Her words were funny but lonely. Her eyes nervously asked questions. I was looking into a murky well, but I couldn't turn away. Sometimes I wish I could take her away. We could walk a beach sipping coffee, and she'd laugh and feel really well and not start crying. She'd be different. No one would ask me questions about being with someone so weird, lonely. 'Save me,' she whispers. It makes me lonely. My life before that first day seems far away. Her cutting habit scares me. I ask questions so maybe she can say what hurts. I offer coffee with lots of sugar and milk, something different. She dries her smudged eyes, sighs, 'Oh, well.' I wish we could hold hands by a rock well and fling in her thorny wounds, fears, loneliness. Maybe things with her will never be different. Maybe I need to pack up and run far away, but then tomorrow, alone, she'd drink bitter coffee again, and I'd be asking myself what-if questions. My counselor asks me confusing questions about whether I can cure her, make her well, and what if I hadn't gone out for that first coffee, can I really save anyone but me. 'But she's so lonely,' I say, 'and I love her and can't just turn away.' I even pray that she'll wake up smiling, different. My family says, 'Think of college, a new different life, a clean start.' Maybe a roommate will question my politics, sign us up for a trip to the mountains far away. Can, should I, forget her, and focus just on me? Well, I'd miss her too, digging into my skin, lonely for what I provide, warmth and not just in the coffee. People say I don't look well, I stopped coffee, but the broken questions just replay, won't go away. I want to be different even if I'm lonely.

Questa vita è un naufrago infelice che s’illude ch’ogni nave sia tu. Sulle sponde che sol tu conosci attende che la tua mente risorga." ("Odi Oscure - © M.Francesca Consiglio - all rights reserved.

QUESTION AND ANSWER ON THE MOUNTAIN You ask for what reason I stay on the green mountain, I smile, but do not answer, my heart is at leisure. Peach blossom is carried far off by flowing water, Apart, I have heaven and earth in the human world.

Que tu viennes du ciel ou de l'enfer, qu'importe, Ô Beauté, monstre énorme, effrayant, ingénu! Si ton œil, ton souris, ton pied, m'ouvrent la porte D'un Infini que j'aime et n'ai jamais connu ? De Satan ou de Dieu, qu'importe ? Ange ou Sirène, Qu'importe, si tu rends, – fée aux yeux de velours, Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine ! – L'univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds.

Quick now, here, now, always-- A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything)

Quizá solo se trate de encontrar a quien te sigue mirando cuando tú cierras los ojos.

Qu’un poète élève la voix, qu’un musicien saisisse son violon, qu’un peintre ou qu’un sculpteur surprenne et fixe les raisons de la vie, qu’un véritable créateur surgisse en quelque endroit du globe, et je dis que ma patrie est là même où cet homme respire, je dis que ma patrie est en tout lieu que je peux connaître et chérir à travers l’âme d’un poète.

Quiero que los poetas dejen de llamarse poetas y comiencen a llamarse sueños y que los sueños comiencen a llamarse estrellas o luciérnagas o arroyos o triciclos

Quintali di Povertà a renderci ricchi

Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos

QUIET NIGHT THOUGHT Before my bed the moonlight glitters, Like frost upon the ground. I look up to the mountain moon, Look down and think of home.

Radar Data #12 It was in the absence of light as when near new moon and no moonlight; as when a part of a picture is in shadow (as opposed to a light); as when in the condition of being hidden from view, obscure, or unknown—in concealment, or else without knowledge as regards to some particular; and of the weather, season, air, sky, sea, etc., characterized by tempest; in times, events, circumstances etc. subject to tempers; inflamed, indicative, predictive, or symbolical of strife (harbinger of coming trouble)—a period of darkness occurring between one day & the next during which a place receives no light from the sun, and what if it is all behind us? I no longer fear the rain will never end, but doubt our ability to return to what lies passed. On the radar, a photopresent scraggle of interference, as if the data is trying to pretend something’s out there where everything is lost.

Rain turned to ice, and lightning splintered, it spliced the black sky, it seeped a bright white. All animals they fled, from the sky as it bled, pale death that fell veiling the night.

Rain's pouring and it's too cold. All people bored and I even accord What to do but spell a tale told: So once upon a time a land in the shore...

Raise from your bed of languor Raise from your bed of dismay Your friends will not come tomorrow As they did not come today You must rely on yourself, they said, You must rely on yourself, Oh but I find this pill so bitter said the poor man As he took it from the shelf Crying, O sweet Death come to me Come to me for company, Sweet Death it is only you I can Constrain for company.

Rainer Maria Rilke greeted and wrestled with the angels of his Duino Elegies in the solitude of a castle surrounded by white cliffs tall trees and the sea. I greeted most of mine in the solitude of a house that still vibrated with the throbs of a singular life that had helped shape many lives and with the ache of attempts to render useful service to that life. The River of Winged Dreams was therefore constructed as a link between dimensions of past and future emotions and intellect and matter and spirit.

Rahiseva transistori, Saarenmaan valssi soi, luontoilta, säätiedotus kun alkaa näyttää matalalta. Ilmapuntarit heilahtavat, tytön vatsassa rummuttaa ilo ja jännitys, tytöllä on trapetsimieli. Äidin päätä särkee, naisilla on sääpää. Isä tekee kalanpäästä keittoa, hauella on elävät harmaat silmät, ne kasvattavat älyä, tyttö jää tyhmäksi. Kala maistuu mudalta, muta on iilimatojen onnela, hauki vaanii vedessä ahnain hampain, kyyt pusikoissa, iilit veden värjyvissä poukamissa, muta tytön sydämessä, pikkuiset valkeat sydämet ovat reikiä uikkareissa, tyttö ei mene uimaan, tyttö menee aurinkopaahteiselle tielle makaamaan kädet auki, nauraa ilosta kun auto suhahtaa sentillä ohi, punaisen kuplan ikkunasta rahisee Georg Ots.

Rap in its form is poetry, meaning the point of convergence is words.

Rare and powerful harmonies exist, Shaping both scent and contour in a flower. Thus brilliance lies unseen by us until, Beneath the chisel, it blazes in the diamond. And thus do images of fleeting vision, Drifting above like cloud-forms in the sky, Once turned to stone live on from age to age, Held always in a faultless, polished phrase. ("A Sonnet To Form")

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Random thoughts that fly away. Where words has no place to stay. Let it be right where they are. Let the work of art preserve its life.